


The Quilted Lion

by girlskylark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Magic, Baking but with magic, Barista Allura, Chef Coran, Edgelord Keith, Fluff and Angst, Illegal Activities, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith and Pidge are roommates, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Magic University - Freeform, New York City, Shiro is Keith's "manager", Street Fights, Street boxing, The Quilted Lion café, Urban Sorcery, Waiter Lance, klance fluff, magical coffee shop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlskylark/pseuds/girlskylark
Summary: Keith is stuck in New York City barely making ends meet so he and Pidge can live in a decent part of the city close to her university. They scrape by on the illegal winnings Keith makes in street boxing matches, but his manager, Shiro, decides that it's time Keith gets a side job. He's whisked into The Quilted Lion café owned by the woman Shiro's been fawning over for over a year, only to find that he has more to worry about than his lack of magic and cooking skills--There's a waiter at The Quilted Lion who is entirely Keith's cup of tea.





	1. The Quilted Lion

“I don’t think this is what you mean by a ‘real job’. Is this your subtle way of firing me?” Keith asked dully, eyebrow raising as he stood alongside Shiro, staring across the street. It was one of those usual insipid days in winter where nothing was white anymore—just dirty-asphalt gray, down to every last nook and cranny on this goddamn street corner. 

He scraped a bit of sludge off the metal of a nearby street post as Shiro sighed, folding his arms over his thickset chest. His boss’ winter coat just made him look stockier than usual. “ _No_ , of course not. I’m not firing you. And this is one of my favorite cafés.”

“It doesn’t really seem like your… style. Not saying you can’t like unicorns and rainbows but… _seriously?_ ” Keith scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned and hoisted his backpack higher. “I’m out. I am _not_ applying to a goddamn cake-baking shit-show—”

“It is _not_ ,” Shiro countered, grabbing Keith by the back of his hood just as the walk sign blinked white. Keith staggered to meet Shiro’s steps across the street, shaking off his boss’ hand. Keith glowered up at the one bright thing on this street. Somehow the post-snow dirt managed to avoid the pristine blue sign overhead that read “ _The Quilted Lion_ ”.

He couldn’t believe NYC even came up names like this. But then again, he met a lot of weird people throughout his years here—this couldn’t be any worse than some of the fights he got in for business.

There was a disgustingly cute doorbell overhead when they stepped through, and Keith noted the doormat that read, “ _Hello there!_ ” in a wispy cursive font. Keith raised an eyebrow at Shiro, who was already stepping ahead to the counter not far away.

The place was actually kind of… fancy—for a café, anyway. There were retro-looking baby blue booths accented in white and faint yellow. Keith tried not to feel like a black ink splotch on the floral-printed tiles and failed completely.

“Takashi! How are you today?” a feminine voice perked up, her accent drawing Keith’s attention back to his boss. He couldn’t see Shiro’s face, but he wanted to melt into an embarrassed puddle right there in the middle of the café. He knew instantly why this was Shiro’s favorite place for coffee.

“I’m fine. How have things been with you?” he asked as Keith shuffled up next to him. He peered through the glass counter, down at the gelato samples and back up to the woman standing across from them. Her name tag read _ALLURA_. 

_Jesus fucking Christ, Shiro_ , Keith moaned internally.

After they were done with their busy chat, Shiro motioned to Keith. “This is my nephew, Keith. I’ve been taking him around to some of the coffee shops for applications.” _Pff, nephew, how innocent_ , Keith mused, snickering a little. He realized that Shiro wouldn’t have brought Keith straight to his ultimate, childish crush if he didn’t trust Keith not to spill the details. And he was starting to put it together—working in such a place would certainly take away from… unwanted attention.

“Oh!” she blurted out, “Applications, yes… hm… where did I put those…” As she turned around and bent down underneath the cash register, she said, “We just got an opening in the kitchen and—I don’t mean to pry and it isn’t necessary for the job, but are you familiar with charms at all, Keith?” 

For a second his brain sputtered out. _Charms?_ But then he realized her accent—Europe had a different dialect when it came to magic terms.

“Uh, no magic. I don’t think, anyway,” Keith said, wincing a little as he stumbled over the words.

Allura shuffled through a folder and pulled out a packet for him. “Here, you can fill it out here, take it with you, bring it back—whatever you like. And don’t worry about the charming at all. It isn’t a requirement.”

“So you use magic a lot then?” Keith asked.

She let out a laugh, her smile captivating. “Of course I do. That’s what this place is built on. I make all the drinks with a hint of something special, you know,” she said, and winked at Shiro. _I can’t fucking believe this_ , Keith groaned when he saw Shiro’s cheeks go pink.

After an awkward moment of silence, Keith droned, “Uh… I’ll just… fill it out here if that’s all right.”

Allura gave him a pen and he left to take a seat at one of the window booths. It was right in front of one of the decal stickers on the windows spelling out the daily hours. There were small trinkets on the table, and Keith lifted one of the small, framed paintings to see up close. They were all really bizarre—like something someone would have thought of while either high or severely drunk. He set it back down and sighed, glancing over at Shiro, who was hopelessly flirting with the boss-lady. _I can barely stand the one boss—though, Allura seems nice enough_ , he thought. Though, he always despised busywork. There wasn’t any point to it. 

Cafés seemed to run on busywork, and magic, apparently.

  


  


Unfortunately it started snowing again the second he and Shiro went their separate ways. By the time he finished the application and Shiro was done chatting up the café owner, the snow covered Keith from head to toe. It clung to his hair until there wasn’t a speck of black to be seen under it. 

He walked underneath the under-construction facade on a building near his apartment, and was grateful for the brief break of constant sky-dandruff in his eyes. Once outside of the temporary shelter, he passed the downstairs shop. There was an antique store joined to his apartment building a few steps down.

His hands were numb in his pockets, and red when he pulled out his keys. He fumbled around with them until finally inserting it into the lock. A huff of white misted out of his mouth, even as he stepped inside. The door rattled shut behind him and always succeeded in startling him a little.

He lumbered to the stairs, marching one floor, two floor, three floors up. At the end of the hall he rustled through his keys again, only to find the door unlocked. 

Glaring at it, he nudged it open and said, “I told you to lock the door, even when you’re home.”

A head poked out around the corner, all ginger and big round glasses. “Oh, sorry—I guess I forgot,” Pidge said. Keith gave her a dull stare and she shrugged. “Seriously, if there was an intruder, I’d be able to fend for myself.”

“Okay one: I’m not underestimating your fighting abilities, but two: I seriously doubt you’d be able to fend for yourself. Let’s say three huge men come in to steal your… our… um…” After locking the door behind him, he shuffled into the living room and glared at the bare surfaces of it. He meant to say “television”, but they didn’t have one of those.

He finally turned to Pidge, who raised her eyebrows as if to say, “What did I tell you?”

“Okay, so we don’t have anything for people to steal. Except maybe leftover pizza and your laptop,” he muttered, chucking his backpack onto the couch next to her. She laughed, knees up and head hidden behind her screen. After hesitating in the doorway of the kitchen, he turned back to her and said, “How’s school going?”

“Fine. I’m just finishing up a paper that should be finished… one hour ago, but I got distracted. Due-date isn’t until Friday so…” she lifted her bony shoulders up, a guilty grin on her face as she tried unsuccessfully to dodge Keith’s disapproval. “Okay, no more distractions. But how was work?”

He pursed his lips for a moment. As far as Pidge knew, he was in retail—he knew enough retail horror stories to make it believable, but… now Shiro was trying to get him into an _actual_ job. Like, one where every paycheck has tax taken out of it. “I’m… thinking about quitting. But I’m looking at other places, see if I get accepted anywhere. Maybe a coffee… shop? I guess?”

“I could see you working at a 90s, backstreet rock-café. Every last angsty adolescent girl would be _swooning_ over you,” she said, and Keith scoffed, disappearing before she could say anything else on the matter. But of course, that didn’t stop her from shouting, “Maybe you’ll date a rockstar! And we’d get to go on tour!”

“He’d invite me, but _definitely_ not you,” Keith shouted back, opening cupboard after cupboard. “Besides! You have school and stuff. You can’t exactly take university with you, you know.”

“Unfortunately,” he faintly heard her grumble. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be living in this shitty, expensive apartment—but at least I’m living in it with you! So that makes up for it.”

Keith scoffed but otherwise didn’t respond. He pulled out one of the ramen packets and put a pot of water on the stove. He sifted through what spices they had and seasoned it so it wouldn’t be as bland as he and Pidge were used to. With the leftover vegetables in the fridge, he copped up chives Pidge took from her university’s greenhouse and split the helpings into two. 

They ate their meal on the table in the kitchen, next to the window overlooking the buildings across the street. Keith lifted up the papers on the edge of the table that they’d been avoiding, and set them back down like he did those trippy paintings at The Quilted Lion. “Do you ever feel left out at that school? I mean, it’s not like you’re some magical art student or anything, but…” he said, frowning at the table.

Pidge hesitated mid-slurp and spat out some of her noodles to say, “I mean, a little. But I’m going there because they have a engineering for magical students. Not a lot of places have that.”

He hummed thoughtfully, resting his temple against his index finger. It would be a lie to say schools that supported magic were cheaper, or anything like that. University was still university—stupidly, inexplicably unaffordable. But magic was a lot like those niches people tended to get. Some were good at it, others were shit at it. Most of the time it was an inverse relationship with a person’s ability to grasp concrete subjects, like calculus or astrophysics. Keith thought a lot about it, and the more time he spent on the matter, the more he realized that Pidge was one goddamn anomaly. That girl was everything all condensed into the shape of a small eighteen-year-old child. And by some miracle she ended up knowing Keith.

Usually if you excelled in concrete subjects, you were complete trash at the magical side of life. Pidge was a testament against that.

“What about your parents?” he asked. “Have you talked to them about it lately?”

“What? About school? Yeah, I mean, they’re paying for it so… it’d probably help if they knew I was doing great in classes,” she said, and Keith shrugged. “Do you still wish you were in school?”

“No. I don’t see the point. But it’s not like I have magic to fall back on so I mean… just regular, everyday jobs are fine I guess,” he said, but betrayed it with an unintentionally dejected sigh. Pidge frowned at him and returned to her ramen.

A lot changed when magic was implemented into every day life. It was introduced into school systems like extracurricular art classes, or clubs, events. It just became an average “thing” a little less than a century ago. But just like every new thing—technology, scientific discovers… there were consequences. Of course, Keith had yet to experience those consequences. So far, he had a lot to be grateful for in terms of magic in his life.

A lot… to be grateful for.

Keith cleaned the dishes so Pidge could get back to work. Afterwards he went to his room and took a short nap—nothing more than an hour and a half before he had to get back to his feet. By that point it was nearly eight, and the living room was shrouded in darkness. The street lights cast a bluish glow on the walls, and they highlighted the bright white light over Pidge’s face. She glanced over at him out of the corner of her eye and turned back to to the screen when he left. He swiped up his workout bag before heading out the door, and locking it behind.

Keith’s “night shift” wasn’t exactly something Pidge bought into, but he tried to convince her anyway, if his constant bruises were anything to go by. Usually retail workers didn’t get attacked after every shift. It was mostly a once-a-week thing when Shiro signed him up for matches. Though, not Keith knew why his boss was letting up on them—it wouldn’t exactly look well to Allura if his “nephew” was a belligerent boxer.

He had a crappy late generation Apple—a hand-me-down from the bossman a few years back. It only had about five contacts in it, plus unnamed numbers here and there. For the most part, though, it was just useful for music and alarms to convince him to wake up in the morning after matches. He was always there to make sure Pidge ate before leaving for classes. That was just his thing.

He plugged in his earbuds and slung the cross-body strap of his duffle onto his back. He stretched for a minute on the stairs before jogging underneath the construction canopy. He ran the half-mile to the gym on the outer reaches of Manhattan.

The buildings began to decrease in size the farther out of the city he got. Their old fashion brick facades wore bleak, glowing signs partially obscured by the new snow—misted street windows glowing at the edges with Christmas lights and displays. He rounded the corner at the record shop and slipped into the alley, entering through the back of the gym building where the small, condensed parking lot was. He recognized Shiro’s car—the black BMW that looked… crappy to say the least. 

He hurried down the steps and heaved open the heavy metal door. It was painted bright red, and even below the level of the parking lot, it was still the brightest thing in that area. The hallway on the other side was cloaked in washed-out, cheap yellow light. The second he stepped in to the actually gym, though, it was all florescent.

There were massive, checkered windows higher up that picked up the lights from the streets. He stepped between two of the boxing rings and stepped underneath the windows, tossing his bag into one of the lockers and unzipping it with little formality. He tore his shirt over his head and stuffed it into the bag, replacing it with his boxing tank. No one seemed to care that he changed his shorts either—locker rooms were an etiquette they all seemed to give up after some time. 

“Hey Keith,” someone perked up from beside him as he tugged the drawstrings on his trousers into a knot. 

“I’m kind of busy, Nyma,” he droned, turning slightly away when she leaned her back on the locker, tilting her head to see him. 

“I heard Bossman’s lookin’ to get you a new job. That right?” she asked, grinning smugly at him. He knew what it implied, which just seemed to rile him up more. Every wrap of gauze to his knuckles was like a punch to the air—sharp, calculated, threatening. “Already retiring his best winning bet?”

“It’s just a side-job. I’ve been needing one of those for a while now. Pidge had to quit her part-time job so my winnings barely cut the bills,” he said, irritated as he threw his gauze wrap back into his bag and slammed the locker shut. He folded his arms over his chest, only now assessing Nyma with her tight bun and muscular arms crossed. She was wearing a loose tank top that said: “I RUN BECAUSE I LIKE BEER”. He didn’t doubt it.

“That sucks, huh? What’s she going to school for anyway? Ain’t she going for, like, _magic_ ,” she said, scoffing a little. Keith hated the connotations the word “magic” entailed, especially in an academic sense. Like magic couldn’t get you anywhere, because that’s what it was: _magic_. 

“It’s more than that,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s more like sorcery for engineering technologist.”

“Sounds fake,” she said, grinning with Keith groaned aloud. “But whatever. Doesn’t matter. You need help warming up? Calendar says you’re up tonight.”

Keith sighed a little. Nyma was always like that: memorizing when each match was, and who was in it. That was her strategy—watching other people when she could. Being matched with Nyma was always a struggle between instinct and tactics. She almost entirely depended on her tactics, unlike Keith. But so far, relying on instincts seemed to get him far. 

Nyma helped him stretch and warmup in the ring until Shiro descended from the observation room—otherwise known as his office. The bookmaker for the match that night accompanied him, and before leaving, shook Shiro’s hand. Keith watched from over his knees until Nyma snapped her fingers at him. He lowered back down, hands behind his head, and back up again. This time Shiro was walking towards him.

Shiro folded something into his back pocket before crooking his finger at Keith. “Up. We’ve gotta get rolling. Thanks Nyma, for helping him out,” he said as they got up off the dusty floor. She brushed off her hands before accepting Shiro’s handshake. 

“No problem boss. If I had spare money to bet with, it’d be on him,” she said, giving Keith a punch to the back of his arm. He stepped over to the locker and grabbed his mouthguard as Shiro laughed lightly and said something to Nyma that made her laugh. Shiro grabbed Keith by the upper arm and towed him towards the door. 

As they headed down the yellow hallway and out the red door, Shiro leaned in to his ear and said, “Remember what I said about this guy. _No funny business_ , you got that? This ref’s kinda touchy about tosses, too.”

“I got it, don’t worry,” Keith muttered, fingers curling around the wrap on his hands. 

They separated, and Keith ducked into the passenger’s seat. Shiro dropped down beside him and grabbed the clutch, slamming the door shut behind him. He maneuvered the stick shift out of the parking lot, black BMW stark against the cascade of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quietly* Why do I do this.


	2. Take A Punch

Street boxing wasn’t a whole lot like regular, professional boxing. For one, Keith was limited to his bare knuckles against his opponent, but other than that the regulations depended on the ref. No tossing. It was a shame because Keith always thought tosses were fun—some spectators came to the matches simply to see how Keith would vault someone twice his weight this time.

With winter in full swing, the matches weren’t outside—which wasn’t nearly as exciting. He always loved the effect night had when they paired it with mobile stadium lamps. But he could live with the bluish glow from outside the warehouse windows. Call it semi-professional, to have “illegal” matches here and there, inside or out.

Keith slapped his hands together, the _smack_ muffled by the amount of people that surrounded the makeshift ring. There wasn’t a frame to lean against, to stand back against—so Keith stayed over by Shiro’s corner, eyeing down his opponent across the circle. He continued to glare even as someone massaged his shoulders from behind—people giving him pats on the arm, selfish “good lucks” in hope their money wouldn’t die for nothing.

The ref called them forward—he was just a kid, perhaps a year or so younger than Keith, wearing a beanie and white sneakers. He called them forward, and Keith got to see his opponent close up for the first time—an older, dusty blonde kid with a flat, protruding forehead. He smirked around his mouthguard at Keith as best he could.

Keith’s eyes flickered to the ref—the kid was laying down the rules. He could have sworn he’d seen this same guy around, perhaps from observing matches himself. Shiro seemed to have everything down about every ref in the league—perhaps to ensure there wasn’t any fraud happening. 

“Ready?” the kid finally said, and Keith brought his fists in to meet his opponents. They bumped against one another, and the kid ref laid his hands over them for a second before splitting them up to separate sides of the ring. Keith backed away, the roar of the crowd increasing. He could see people standing on crates and other miscellaneous mock-furniture in the room.

The ref shouted the start, and instantly Keith’s feet were moving. He crossed over to the right, circulating his opponent to the left. If it weren’t for the heavy mouth piece, Keith would have grinned.

He ducked in and went for a strike to the lower chest, fists clashing against his opponent’s raised forearms. He slammed in again, and the second his opponent doubled down, he slammed Keith’s shoulder. He stepped to the side, dodging the second attack, and blocking the third. The power behind it shook his arms, but he held them firm against the next punch before rounding a fist up and clocking through the opening of the guy’s arms.

The blondie staggered back, arms swinging until Keith slammed his fist against the blondie’s head. He fell against the edge of the ring, people throwing him back in. Keith sidestepped him and swung his arm around the guy’s neck, dragging him back and thrusting him to the ground. 

His opponent was quick to get back up—swaying still, but roaring as he came for Keith. The first attack was a fake-out, and Keith’s instincts sent him straight into a hit to the face. He stumbled back against someone’s arms on the side of the ring, only to be hammered with another hit to the stomach.

Keith coiled in, arms raising to block, and then to punch his opponent away. The second his opponent was distracted, Keith flung himself off the ground and rounded a kick to the blondie’s side. His shin rattled from the contact.

The crowd came roaring back beyond the pounding of his blood in his ears. Keith landed shakily, fists swinging up to block the oncoming attack. He slammed his knuckles against his opponent’s skull, a spray of blood sputtering off his lips. He grabbed the guy around the head and rammed him towards his shoulder, and slammed his knee up into his opponent’s gut. 

A smear of blood draped over Keith’s shoulder as his opponent swayed to the side. Keith staggered back, pulling his elbow back. He jumped forward, cracking his fist _hard_ against the blondie’s head. The instant he did, the sheer force of it threw his opponent across the ground, skidding until he slammed into the feet of the nearby watchers. Keith stepped back, feet bouncing, watching the blondie struggle to get off the ground until the ref called the match.

The crowd converged on them, and Keith dissolved into it all, breathing hard. He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead, pushing back his hair as he spotted Shiro standing farther off, high-fiving one of his buddies before reaching in to pull Keith out.

They waited until after the crowd thinned for the bookie to divvy up the winnings. Shiro cut Keith’s wage out of it and folded it, sliding it into the pocket of Keith’s shorts. “Good job, kid,” he said.

“Thanks, _Uncle_ ,” Keith retorted sarcastically. Shiro rolled his eyes, slapping Keith hard on the shoulder before reaching up with his other hand to check the damage on Keith’s eye. At some point he’d gotten hammered there, so it wasn’t a surprise when Shiro’s touch throbbed.

“Watch your face next time. If you get hired, you don’t want your new boss worrying about it,” Shiro said, winking because Keith knew exactly what Shiro was hoping for. Keith quirked an eyebrow, sighing off to the side as Shiro laughed and towed him back to the rundown BMW.

  


  


Keith was hired to work at The Quilted Lion the next weekend. His bruise was mostly gone, except for a bit of red irritation on his brow bone. It wasn’t enough to catch the boss-lady’s attention. His fists were another question entirely, but it was their normal appearance to be coarse and raw from practice.

It hadn’t been too long since Keith’s last “regular job”. He remembered the first time he set foot in the loading dock for a backstreet Target warehouse not knowing what to do or who to talk to, where to go. It was much the same situation, except he wasn’t in a ridiculous warehouse. 

The back door of The Quilted Lion was painted pure white—it was a miracle the thing survived the smokey, sludge-y snow that tended to clog the New York gutters. There were hand-painted gold letters on the door behind the unlocked iron gate. He checked Allura’s text message again before reassuring himself that he didn’t need to knock. 

There was a small entry way with a staircase leading up to the second floor for the workers. Underneath the staircase was a basement door—probably for storage. Keith hung up his coat on the wall, next to all the other coats. He leaned over to the nearest open doorway, and found the kitchen there. 

There was just one other worker in there—a nimble guy with flaming orange hair. He was sporting a Quilted Lion kitchen shirt—blue and white and everything. _God, I hope I don’t have to wear one of those_ , Keith groaned internally. 

“Oh hey!” the man said. “You must be Keith. Get in here, my name’s Coran.” He had a weird accent as well—English, or something.

Just as Keith was approaching, Coran lifted his hands up from the bowl. Keith would have missed it had he not been focusing on everything about Coran—going for the Nyma-Method on analyzing his opponent. His eyes widened as the dessert filling lifted, as if fluffed from underneath. The whip topping swirled into a perfect peak. 

“Whoa,” Keith breathed out, about to lean over the counter before getting his hand smacked by Coran.

“Eh, careful now. Wash your hands over there,” he ordered, voice light but still somehow managing to make Keith feel like a complete idiot. 

He shuffled across the tiles and glanced towards the large window overlooking the front of the cafe. Just the other day he was sitting out there while the bossman flirted helplessly with the boss-lady. _Unbelievable_. 

The kitchen itself was kind of narrow compared to the open space of the café itself. He could see Allura at the front counter chatting with a customer, but the lighting in the kitchen seemed to wash out the front all together. It was bright and florescent here. Keith returned to Coran, who immediately herded him to the shirts. Goddammit. 

Keith was barely done throwing the larger uniform shirt over his tank top when the door to the kitchen opened. He pried his head through the hole and wondered briefly if the tight fit drained all the blood out of his head. He felt completely detached from the world the second it became clear that Allura wasn’t the only one up front. 

“Coran, we need—wait, oh hey there. New guy,” the guy said, and Keith returned from the quick once-over, eyes already wide from being thrown into a new workplace. He wasn’t really used to customer service, let alone conversing with the service. 

“Uh…” Keith droned, and was thankfully saved by Coran.

“This is Keith. He’s gonna help out in the kitchen. First day and everything,” he piped up, slapping Keith _hard_ on the back. Thankfully he was used to that with Shiro and all.

This fella was sporting a waiter’s half-apron—blue and white and everything _Quilted Lion_. His shirt fit way better— _too_ better, in Keith’s opinion—than the oversized kitchen shirt with the tiny collars. It was a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Overall, a lanky fellow, and that much was clear from the close fit of his dress shirt and skinny jeans. 

_Holy shit holy shit holy—_

Keith darted his eyes back up the second the guy started walking towards him, hand outstretched. “The name’s Lance. See? Name tag and everything. I like to think I’m a _professional_ ,” he said, and Keith took his hand, only to be pulled in with a skeptical expression. “Wait, so do you use magic then? I was kinda hoping Allura would stop dragging me into the back like this.”

“Um, no magic. But she said I wouldn’t need it for the kitchen…” 

“ _Lies—_ ”

“I said _helping_ with the cooking,” Coran butted in, splitting up their hands so Keith could take a defensive step back from Lance. “Helping doesn’t require magic. It’ll be great! And if the kitchen doesn’t suit you, Lance could show you the ropes on waiting on tables.” _Dear God please no_ , Keith begged. The kitchen was fine. Here he wouldn’t have to be subjected to certain customer service nightmares. In addition, he wasn’t sure how much he could take of Lance coming in and out of the kitchen to get orders. His hand still felt like it was on fire—but then again, Pidge always did joke about Keith being cold-blooded.

“He means dishwashing,” Lance said to the side before ripping a tab off his notepad. He stuck it into the orders clip and walked off. He bumped his hip against the swinging door and was gone.

“Lance is one of Allura’s students from the university,” Coran explained, causing Keith to look to him with a brow raised. “She’s the culinary professor in sorcerous courses. Some of her students work part-time here—but Lance isn’t in the culinary program. Hobby, you get the gist.”

“What other students work here?” Keith asked. “Why didn’t she just hire one of her other students?”

At this, Coran merely sniggered at him. Okay, so secrets were a thing. Keith sighed and followed Coran through the motions of prepping food and general kitchen-care. He’d have to memorize the menu front and back—but thankfully The Quilted Lion wasn’t a restaurant. It was just a casual café. Recipes were another matter. It seemed as though Coran expected him to just pick them up as they went along—of course, Coran would always be there to remind him the proportions and such, but there wasn’t a book to read from.

Keith numbered the amount of times Lance spun in extra perky. Of course, he couldn’t base this on the assumption that Lance just _liked_ being in the back of the café—if his distaste for actively cooking was anything to go by. He just came in every time a new customer came in asking for something from the kitchen. 

Though, he did seem to like flirting with Allura just as much as Shiro did, though upon Keith’s skeptical looks, Coran pitched in, “Allura gets a kick out of it. It makes her feel powerful.”

“She does pretty much have him under her thumb…” Keith muttered, holding himself back from grouping the rest of them into that discussion. She was the boss-lady— _everyone_ at The Quilted Lion was under her thumb.

Just as he finished saying it, the door burst open and Allura marched in as if on cue. Keith jumped, startled, and nearly sent the plate in his hand soaring. Coran took it before that could happen. “How is it out there?” Coran asked her, cheerful as ever.

“Fine. And Keith, I would recommend tying your hair up, or using one of the hair nets,” she said, and Keith panicked a little at the thought of a hair net. As if the kitchen shirt wasn’t cringe-worthy enough. 

“Sure. I’ll just tie it up,” he said, and brushed his hands off on his pants as he walked over to the sink. As she delved into a chat with Coran about lack of silk cakes, Keith used the elastic on his wrist to tie his hair back into a tight bun—he tended to do that for runs and such. He rinsed off his hands before returning to Coran’s side, only to find Allura literally working her magic.

He figured now was the time to realize why, exactly, she was the culinary professor at a university that encouraged _magic_. 

Ingredients were soaring through the air in a flourish at just the slightest brush of her hand. She twisted them together into batter before their very eyes—a rope of it spiraling through the air as Coran dashed in sugar and sprinkled spices across it. Keith glanced out the front window to find customers practically leaning across the glass gelato counter to see Allura work. That explained why the window was so massive to begin with. Magic like this was entertainment.

“Keith, the pan please,” Allura said, and after a second Keith scrambled forward and caught the pan on the edge of the counter. He held it up and a split second later, the batter began to layer itself inside. The weight increased and soon he was holding a solid stone pan with an entire cake practically weighing down on him. 

Allura took several drops of food coloring from a bottle—the bubbles of it drifting with her fingers. She stepped up to Keith and spread her hands a few inches above the surface, and the red seeped in, spreading with her fingers until the entire cake batter was a vibrant, fiery red. 

“I suggest you put it on the counter over there. That surface can take up to four hundred degrees, unlike your hands,” she said with a wink. Keith blinked at her, shocked, and quickly set it onto the surface. A moment later the pan itself began to heat up, and they all watched the speed-heating process of power baking a cake without an oven. It took nearly less than five minutes, during which time Allura walked back to the door. Keith’s eyes followed her, shocked, until she gave him a cute little wave that sent his cheeks flaming.

Keith wasn’t even straight, and he could see why Shiro adored her so damn much.

He worked for a few more hours after that until the café closed. He came in later, after the morning rush shift, so Keith was there when he realized Shiro had been in the dining area for the last hour. It didn’t take much to realize he stayed until closing time so when Allura came up to tell him she was closing up, he had an excuse to chat with her. 

Coran whipped something up for Keith to eat—employees apparently got free meals which was really worth all the wait. It was a fancy sandwich with bacon and the awesome shit he didn’t usually get at the apartment with Pidge. His mouth was watering by the time he stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining area, pausing at the sight of Shiro getting up to leave. On the way out he slipped his tip onto one of the booth tables farther back—where Lance was evidently sitting sorting through his tips.

“Oh, Keith!” Allura piped up, startling him from where he’d been staring at _all the money on Lance’s table_ —“Your uncle stopped by. I was just telling him how great you’re doing so far.”

_That really isn’t necessary…_ Keith groaned internally as he walked towards them. When Allura turned to face Shiro, he glared at the bossman, who he was sure would have made a face back had Allura not been talking to him. 

“Thanks for stopping by, as usual. Stay safe walking home,” she was saying, giving Shiro an affectionate pat on the arm.

“I think I can handle myself all right. Glad to see you’re getting on all right, Keith. I’ll see you two around,” Shiro said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he stepped out into the cold. Keith felt the winter chill on his legs, all the way up to inside of his chest—he supposed that was what he got for spending all day in a burning kitchen.

Allura turned back to Keith and noted his plate. “Oh, perfect. Coran made you something. You can literally have whatever you like on the menu if sandwiches aren’t your thing. Leftover specials are always a plus for me—otherwise they just sit there and fester,” she said.

“Well, they don’t _actually_ fester. We throw them out if no one wants them,” Lance piped up from the booth behind him. He was just stacking up the dollar bills and stuffing them into what looked like… a pencil case? Keith couldn’t be certain. It’d been several years since high school when pencil cases were actually a thing.

“Thanks for that clarification,” Allura muttered, grinning a little as she waltzed past Keith to pat Lance on the head. He shook her off, smirking, before looking up and meeting Keith’s gaze.

After a moment of dead silence when Allura disappeared into the back with Coran, Lance raised his arms blatantly before saying, “What are you doing? Come sit over here at eat for Chrissake.”

Keith slid into the booth seat opposite Lance, almost mechanically because he didn’t trust himself to say anything, or do anything. But neither of them were saying anything—he had to say something, but the second he tried to talk his voice got all choked up and awkward until he cleared it. “Did you, um, already eat? Or…?”

“Nah, I usually grab something on the way out. You know, culinary student and all that. Allura gets pissy when I ask Coran to make something _for_ me when I can do fine on my own,” he said, and upon seeing Keith’s narrowed eyes, added, “That’s not to say you can’t cook or anything! It’s just that you’re new and all so you get all the perks, I swear.

“But also, there were a few compliments with those raspberry scones you and Coran made so you’re obviously getting something right,” Lance said, talking fast. Keith wouldn’t have thought it was out of the ordinary had Lance’s cheeks not turned bright red afterwards. Usually he never noticed things like that— _damn you, Nyma_ —which was probably a good thing because the awkwardness just seemed to seep right into Keith.

“Um…” he slurred, “thanks, I guess.” He stuffed it all behind his sandwich after that while Lance stuffed his pencil bag full of money into his backpack. Keith knew he should just keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t stop picturing the goddamn table before Lance put it all away. “Do you… always get that much money?”

“Hm? Oh, just when I work back-to-back shifts. Most of this is from the morning rush,” Lance explained, patting a hand onto his backpack. Keith wondered how much would be in there, if someone happened to mug Lance on his way home—it just seemed like an awful idea to let someone walk around without protection…

_No, stop it Keith_ , he hissed to himself.

“What about the afternoons? Like today?” he decided to ask, covering his half-full mouth with a hand.

Lance laughed a little, resting his head on his hand with a shrug. “Mostly regulars. Regulars always tip well—almost always, I mean. It’s not like everyone can afford a goddamn truffle omelette every day in _this_ city. I mean, unless you’re a successful _whatever_ but not everyone’s like that. Which reminds me, what does your uncle do for a living? I mean, he comes so often I have his order memorized.”

Keith nearly choked. It was the first day and he hadn’t even come up with a backstory for being a fucking nephew to his street boxing employer. He pretended to chew while he thought it over. What did people do in NYC? Was he a lawyer? A shop owner? Or—

What if he already made an excuse to Allura?

_Oh shit_.

“I… don’t actually know,” Keith finally blurted out. “Big family secret I guess. I never asked.”

“Interesting…” Lance hummed. After a moment of intense thought, he said, “What if he’s, you know, a _drug dealer_ or something?”

Keith actually choked because he’d been having hunches about that being a side-hobby for Shiro. Every now and then the sketchiest people came into the gym for unknown business. Shiro always hurried them into the observation room before anyone could ask questions, even Nyma. She was always quick to target newbies. Besides, Keith knew for a fact that Nyma dabbled in supplying to people outside of the gym.

“I seriously doubt it,” Keith said, trying to laugh it off. “I mean… that doesn’t seem like—I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like the kind of… thing he’d do…?”

“You seem unsure about it. But whatever. I’ll keep thinking of other ideas,” he said, rubbing a hand on his chin. “Not many CEOs wear leather jackets unless they’re going under cover. Is he a bar owner?”

“Then why isn’t he at his bar all the time? Don’t bars start getting busy around this time of night?” Keith asked.

“Key word: _start_ getting busy. Which is why he just left, to help out with the rush,” he said. Keith had to admit, Lance was starting to sell him on this idea of Shiro being a bartender. He fit the imagine— _and_ he knew people better than the people knew themselves. Shiro could talk about anything with anyone—though, he was always rather particular about his words…

“Anyway, I gotta get going,” Lance said. “I have a train to catch.”

“Where do you live?” Keith asked before he could stop himself. 

Lance made a face as he stood up and said, “Well, I don’t make it a habit to give my address out to people…”

Keith rolled his eyes so hard his head curved on his shoulders. “Okay, I don’t mean specifics. Like, what part of the city.”

“Oh, Lower East Side. I sort of have to be close to campus otherwise it’d be a ridiculous train ride from the Bronx. Hunk and I wanted to live in the Bronx ‘cause of the ridiculous prices down here but— _oh_! Oh, you don’t know Hunk. Hunk’s, like, Allura’s cooking angel. He takes care of the morning rush. Magic is, like, his thing. And he’s just a pretty cool guy to hang out with in general.” 

Keith was almost too busy piecing things together to realize what Lance just said. The Quilted Lion was on the edge of Greenwich Village—a long walk from home, but not far enough to warrant a train ride, or one that would even get Keith close to his apartment in East Village. All of Pidge’s favorite restaurants were in Greenwich, which reminded Keith that Sunday was coming up, fortunately the one day The Quilted Lion was closed. He always made a point to walk her to Greenwich for breakfast—it was something they both looked forward to.

But then Lance mentioned Hunk and Keith’s heart pretty much dropped out of his ass. It wasn’t even attached by anything anymore. It was just on the ground by this point. 

“Oh, so you and Hunk… how long have you two been—living together?”

“God, I wanna say since high school? We went to the same high school—out of state. We’re actually from Milwaukee—you know, Wisconsin… But it’s so cool. Hunk’s actually from _Hawaii_ , but his mom’s from the Midwest and missed it. I mean, who misses the Midwest? It’s so cold in the winter.”

_Yeah, but it’s probably expensive to live in Hawaii_ , Keith would have said if all his hopes and dreams weren’t just crushed in a few sentences. It was one thing to flirt around with Allura all the time, but a completely other factor to include Lance’s serious involvement with a guy he’s been living with since high school.

“Yeah, Hunk’s pretty cool. You won’t work mornings for a while yet, though, so ya probably won’t run into him too often,” Lance said, and with a wave of his hand somehow managed to ignore Keith’s crestfallen expression. Though, then again, Pidge always claimed Keith was crap at expressing his feelings. His tense frown probably just skimmed straight over Lance’s head.

Lance left through the back, since the front was already all locked up. Keith looked down at his half-eaten sandwich and was grateful he stopped eating it earlier—he planned on saving some for Pidge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely feedback :D It's great to hear what y'all think about it, and I LIVE for the theories. 
> 
> I'm working on my pining Keith. It's weird getting into that mindset.


	3. Oatmeal Mornings

“I want to play a game of chess and kick your ass into the next dimension,” Pidge said as they walked the diagonal path cutting straight through the park. Keith laughed, shoving her in the arm as she squealed, “I’m serious! I always kick your ass at chess. I even brought my set to prove it.”

“I’m not exactly the genius here, but sure. After breakfast,” he said. She huffed at him, cheeks out and everything. They were passing all the chess tables by that point, and Pidge was clutching her satchel like she had plans to whip out her chess set and start paving a path down Victory Lane with it.

A block or so over, they arrived at the oatmeal store. Keith held open the door for her and together they debated over the flavor of the day. Keith was always pretty consistent with his oatmeal—the Elvis Presley, bacon and all. Just the thought of it sent his toes curling in his boots while Pidge swayed anxiously in front of the massive black board. The flavors were etched in chalk, and she stepped between something sweet and spicy, and the Devil’s Off Horseback.

“I know I’m sweet and spicy, but the Devil speaks to me,” Pidge whined, clutching her hands at it. “The Devil tempts me.”

“We’ll take the Elvis and the Devil please,” Keith said to the cashier, handing over the tip money he got the previous night at Allura’s café. Evidently, chefs got a little somethin’-somethin’ at the end of the night, so Keith wasn’t _entirely_ jealous of Lance. 

Okay, perhaps he was _incredibly_ jealous of Lance. But that didn’t change the fact that he was still bummed about his prospects anyway.

Pidge did her little ready-to-eat dance in front of the glass countertop. The space was small to begin with, so the few spots that were taken had a perfect view of Pidge spiraling around Keith, who stood stoically at the counter, equally impatient for the oatmeal. 

The cashier, who knew them from week to week, presented their bowls dramatically. Pidge raised her arms up slowly, like a canon taking aim, and at last snatched her bowl. The girl laughed, and passed Keith his Elvis with a, “See you guys next week—enjoy your oatmeal!”

“Thanks!” Pidge said, bounding out the door with an air of triumph about her. 

Keith strolled out the door after her, already delving into the peanut butter goodness. Pidge moaned and said, “I swear this is pure magic.”

“I’m pretty sure pure magic tastes like hazelnuts,” Keith said, and upon seeing Pidge’s perplexed look, he added, “My new boss said so. She’s a culinary freak. Though, I think she said something along the lines of some magic tasting different than others? So it’s subjective, depending on how you look at it.”

“What do hazelnuts taste like?”

“… Like Hazelnut?”

“Ha, not good enough. I need a solid answer to this. You think I could ask her? Would she have a good answer for it?” she asked. 

“I’ve only been working there for a few days—not exactly in the position to be asking her bizarre questions that my roommate ‘needs’ the answers to,” he remarked. He held Pidge back from crossing the street rapidly—she was in one of her wild “moods” and seriously needed to calm down. 

The instant they crossed the street, Pidge made a beeline for the chess tables. There was an entire circle of them, arranged with iron benches and simple chessboards for visitors. Keith recalled the first time he visited this particular park in Greenwich Village, and how he and Pidge had been too enthralled in a game of chess to realize that the pieces weren’t fair game. The owner of the chess pieces chased them away, thrashing their walker in the air.

Since then Pidge always seemed to carry a bag of chess pieces in her backpack.

She slid into the bench seat and Keith plopped into the opposite chair. He scarfed down a few more bites of oatmeal and peanut butter as Pidge divvied up the pieces. He knew his odds of winning were slim—in his profession, it was a requirement to know when and when not to engage in “combat”, so to speak. Taking on Pidge in a game of chess was risky if money was involved. Today there was just oatmeal. 

Suffice to say Keith was crushed in that particular match. 

They left the park with Pidge in a triumphant mood despite the prospects of visiting her university following it. She left one of her projects there over Friday, and after spending all of Saturday procrastinating, remembered that leaving her project behind wasn’t… perhaps… the smartest idea.

Keith tossed his empty oatmeal bowl into the trashcan on their way out of the park and down the street to the nearest subway. Pidge hurried down the steps to the stop, just as the roar of a train sped through. Keith felt the pressure of it passing by tug on him, and saw it ruffle Pidge’s hair up around her ears. Paired with her glasses, she looked positively insane. 

The subway stops were dull and gray, except for the tiled walls across the tracks. These particular ones were tiled white with a green stripe, displaying the name of the stop. Keith stood with his toes on the yellow line, waiting as the train slowed and the doors hissed open. He dragged Pidge in before she could get distracted by the passersby.

“Are you excited to visit my school again?” she asked him as they sat down beside one another. She sat all perked up with her back straight and everything—perhaps since she was wearing her backpack, but either way Keith found that every moment he spent with Pidge, he felt a little happier.

He leant back in his chair, arms crossing. “I don’t know about that. School always gives me the creeps.”

Pidge scoffed a little and muttered, “Clearly.” He slapped her in the arm for it.

The train took them to the Lower East Side, where Pidge’s university was. It was set between blocks of older brick buildings and structures made of heavy concrete slabs. They emerged from the subway under the shadow of one of the university buildings—the one specifically for campus information and registration. They bypassed it, and hurried down the walkway on its south side. Keith stuffed his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket to ward off the cold. Farther away from the street, the snow seemed less like sludge.

“Do you think I could get away with finishing it tomorrow morning?” Pidge asked, practically begging. “I wanted to play League of Legends…”

“No way. Stop procrastinating,” Keith snapped, reaching forward to flick the back of her head. She rubbed that spot as she pushed open the doors to the engineering building. Keith peered up at the clock-tower shape on top of it, and pointedly avoided looking at it since. It was one way to feel like Pidge’s entire tuition was going to maintain these ancient structures—which didn’t seem like a good investment to him, especially when she had so many textbooks to pay for.

“What class is this for anyway?” Keith asked as they climbed two flights of stairs. The stairwell curved around the circular column of the clocktower, and the tall narrow windows above them lit the path. The massive chandelier over their heads was mute.

“It’s just for pre-computer engineering. I left all my stuff in the lab room,” she said, voice echoing. She groaned aloud and it reverberated off the curved walls.

Keith looked up the stairway to the higher floors. There had to be five floors total, maybe six. He couldn’t be sure, because they stopped on the third floor with every intent on staying on focus. Up several floors, Keith swore he saw someone peer over the railing down at him.

The hallways were wide with multicolored tiles, and heavy wooden doors—numbers were nailed to the doors. He counted them up to where Pidge stopped and peered through the window of one. 305. Inside Keith instantly felt claustrophobic and wished he could leave. Half the walls were covered with shelves stuffed to the edges with textbooks and files. There were materials all along the counters on the edges of the room—the cleanest spot was the immediate center, where the work tables were. He lingered around the middle while Pidge rifled around the cabinets of her work station and yanked out a cardboard box of supplies. 

“Sweet! It’s still here! I half-expected my professor to kick it out of the class. This is the organic chemistry lab—I swear sometimes the professor get in fights. But not fist-fights, more like Pokémon battles, or, more accurately, Magic: The Gathering.”

“That sounds sophisticated.”

“You, you bet it is,” she laughed, and with a huff dispensed the box onto the table. He peered inside it and instantly realized why Pidge decided to pick it up on Sunday after their weekly oatmeal exertion.

This was way too heavy for her to carry on her own.

“You just brought me here to be your mule, didn’t you?” Keith complained, and Pidge snickered and nudged the box closer to him. With a groan he swiped it off the table and started walking off towards the door only to scramble to a halt the second he saw that the doorway was already occupied.

He would have screamed if Pidge wasn’t the one to do so first. 

The box started to slip from Keith’s hands before he could help it. The guy in the doorway was the last person he expected to see _anywhere_ near here. “I knew it was you!” Lance shouted, only to yelp when the box hit the ground.

The sound of it echoed along with Keith shouting, “ _FUCK!_ ” and jumping back and straight into Pidge. His foot burned from getting momentarily _crushed_ by Pidge’s goddamn _box_ , not to mention the fact that his entire face felt swollen with redness. Lance yelped and ran forward, ignoring the fact that he clearly wasn’t alone in startling them. 

After Keith and Pidge fell gracelessly to the floor, Keith rubbed his foot and glanced behind Lance at the hulking, army-green-wearing man behind him. He nearly took up the width of the doorway as he stepped in, cringing a little at the sight. 

“Oh shoot, we didn’t mean to scare you!” the stranger said, passing Lance to grab Keith by the hand and heave him to his feet again. Keith practically flew into the air with the force behind the pull, and Pidge yelped when the guy did the same to her. He patted her shoulders gently before saying, “My name’s Hunk—I work with Lance and… hopefully Keith some day! I mean, we haven’t formally met, but I’ve seen your name on the schedule and all. I swear I’m not prying.”

Keith stared at him in shock. He was still agonizing over the brief, informally introduction Lance gave him. For whatever reason he had the mental image of a West Coast beach bum, but Hunk definitely… didn’t seem like the type. At least he didn’t have the “dude” accent going on, or the sun-bleached hair.

Keith wasn’t sure how he’d be able to compete with someone who had sun-bleached hair. But his odds just seemed to get slimmer and slimmer the nicer Hunk was to him.

“Oh, yeah! Perfect—God, I’ve been wanting to introduce you to Hunk for ages,” Lance blurted out, lunging forward to grab Keith by the arm and heave the three of them together.

“We’ve… only been working together for a few days,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Lance. 

He promptly ignored Keith. “Keith, this is Hunk, my best friend. Hunk, this is Keith. I told you he wasn’t a myth.”

“His name is on the calendar, so I hardly think that makes him a myth anyway. I kind of believed you the second Allura said she hired someone anyway,” Hunk laughed, grabbing Keith by the shoulder. He smushed both Keith and Lance forward, and his cheek was pressed against Hunk’s heavy, warm chest and Lance’s scrawny arm. Lance grinned at him, cheek smushed as well.

“So… you all work together?” 

They pulled away to turn to where Pidge was standing, eyes wide and feet beside the box. Keith glanced over at Hunk, and then Lance, who tilted his head to the side as if noticing that Pidge was there for the first time. 

“Yeah, and who are you?” he asked, dropping his arms to his sides. 

She glanced at Keith before one of her “looks” brought a feeling of dread to the pit of Keith’s very being. It couldn’t quite be pegged as “realization” or “cunning”, but it was more accurate to call it a mixture of both. He wished he could bury himself as Pidge sidled up to them and held out her hand to shake Lance and Hunk’s. “I’m Pidge. I got to school here. Keith and I live together.”

“Wait—not like—I mean… we live together but—” Keith started weakly, flushing madly when Pidge just went on. _This bitch…_

“We’ve been living together for two years now. In an apartment in East Village,” she said. “He’s helping me pick up my project. I forgot it over the weekend so… here we are!”

“Here you are,” Lance repeated, and cleared his throat afterwards. Keith rubbed a hand down the side of his face and avoided all eye contact. “That’s awesome! Well, Hunk and I have to get back to work. We were just working on an assignment, up on the third floor. So… see you at work, yeah? All right, Hunk, let’s go.”

With that, Lance began dragging Hunk to the door by the arm. Hunk protested weakly, saying, “But—But I wanted to talk with Keith more!”

“We gotta get back to work. By Pidge, nice to meet you!” Lance shouted behind his shoulder, forcefully pushing Hunk past the threshold. Keith only looked to them the second Lance slammed the door shut behind them. 

  


  


Keith spent the afternoon with Pidge on the apartment floor. She picked apart the supplies in her box and set to work, laying them out evenly one by one. Soon there was a patchwork of materials spread across the wood flooring. With magic, there weren’t usually ridiculous, Hollywood-esque light shows involved, but as Pidge began to piece together her machine, lights sparked from live wires. Keith stayed farther back, leaning against the wall alongside their living room window while Pidge wore her safety goggles and gloves, easing parts together. Keith helped by reading off instructions one by one and helping her find certain parts based on the diagram he was given.

The thing about helping Pidge with projects like these, was that Keith tended to pick up on some of her lingo. It was the one way he was able to keep up a conversation with her about school. Taking time to define every word Keith didn’t know was a waste for Pidge—so he tried his best to memorize what he was given. 

“No, wait—put the video card back,” Keith said, wincing when Pidge groaned. He was smiling anyway.

“But it _fits_ where else will it _go?_ ” she whined.

“I don’t think we’ve built its compartment yet. The modem goes there instead.” She grumbled under her breath while she followed Keith’s orders. Her makeshift board was coming together nicely. When most everything was put together, she pressed her hand to the power source and the processor fan began to run—the skeleton of the front glowed where she implemented strips of greenish light.

Pidge yelped with excitement, lunging over to Keith and giving him a high-five. Keith laughed, tossing the instructions into the box and crawling over to see her work. He’d never built a system unit before, but it amazed him to no end how incredibly Pidge could be with this kind of stuff. 

“I mean, the parts are owned by the school so I can’t keep it… but…” she said, face scrunching up in thought. “I mean, people pay good money to have custom-built computers, you know? I could probably scavenge a few things from the mechanical labs and stuff, and make my own computers without some… goddamn instruction kit telling me what to do.”

Keith prodded at one of the switches until Pidge slapped his hand away. “But where would you find covers for these? You’d have to build custom exteriors.”

Pidge thought for a moment before gasping. “There’s a 3D printer lab. I could just learn how to use that. We aren’t supposed to start 3D printer lab until next year, but there’s nothing like the present,” she exclaimed, and quickly scrambled to grab a notebook to start sketching out ideas and lists for materials. Keith put her system unit experiment into the cardboard box and stood up, knees cracking after sitting for so long. 

After a moment of just studying Pidge with her wild ginger curls and heavy glasses, he stretched his arms up and said, “I’m gonna go work out for a bit. If you get hungry there’s those leftovers I brought from yesterday in the refrigerator.”

“Okay, have fun,” she said, not looking up from her sketchbook.

Keith hesitated in the small foyer in the hallway, looking back at Pidge sitting on the couch. He didn’t mean to stare or anything, but when Pidge looked up to meet his gaze, he realized that he _had_ been staring. “ _Right_ , okay, I’m going,” he said, yanking his gym back off the closet shelf and heading out the door. He locked the door behind him.

He jogged to the gym and was instantly pinpointed by Nyma again. She tended to practice with him in particular—for reasons unbeknownst to him. She seemed to like getting all the information she could for people. It might have been for blackmail, for all Keith cared about it. But he really didn’t bother censoring himself around her. She knew all about Pidge, about their situation, about why Keith was stuck in the East Side in the first place. Likewise, he knew her story just as well as anyone else. 

Nyma lived with her mother. It was one of those situations where it was up to Nyma to take care of her, pay for rent. Some sort of mental disability prevented her mother from working, and she couldn’t afford nursing home costs, even with the sum her father sent every month. So Nyma did underground work, and she was one of the reasons Keith suspected Shiro had something to do with the drug cartel. He never really pressed on those matters.

But Nyma _loved_ pressing on Keith’s matters.

“I’m sort of under the impression that Lance and Hunk are just friends? He introduced Hunk as his best friend, right? And you can be gay male and live with another male, right? Regardless of the other guy’s orientation?” Keith said, breathing hard as he adjusted his foot stance and hammered into the punching bag five more aggressive times.

Nyma leaned out from behind the bag and said, “Yeah totally. A lot of my girl friends are gay or bi or whatever. They all pitched in on an apartment together—doesn’t mean every fucking night is gonna be a goddamn orgy.”

Keith punched the bag _hard_ and glared at her. “Okay, gross. I’m not suggesting—okay, never mind I just seriously _didn’t_ need to know that.”

“I mean, do you think this Hunk fella is gay?” she asked, and Keith steadied the bag with one hand and glared at it. He heard her sigh. “Right, of course, you suck at picking out the obvious. You said he works morning shifts at the… The Quilted Lion?”

Keith narrowed her eyes at her as she walked around with an arm around the bag. “Um, yeah? Why?”

“I’ll go over there and tell ya what I think. I have a pretty good intuition when it comes to these things,” she said, and Keith rolled his eyes. That seemed unlikely. “You want to come with?”

“What! No, no of course not. I _work_ there. I’m not going to—I’m not going to _eat_ there. Lance is a waiter there I can’t,” he exclaimed, face heating up at the thought. That just seemed weird to be waited on by Lance. The tip dynamics would be too strange. If he gave Lance too much, what would that entail? If he paid too little Lance would peg him as a cheapskate. The entire thing was too anxiety-inducing for Keith to even consider.

But then again, that was entirely Shiro’s tactic. And also to make Allura think he was a sort of “family man” by helping out his nephew. 

“Okay, I’ll go there tomorrow morning and meet me here before your shift,” she said.

“Can we do after? I don’t want to be thinking about the results the entire time I’m working with Lance,” he complained, slumping against the punching bag. Nyma laughed, nudging him in the arm before walking off. “ _Nyma!_ After my shift!”

“You heard what I said! _Before_ your shift,” she shouted back. Keith glared after her before pushing off the punching bag. He glared at it with additional ferocity and began hammering into it with renewed vigor.

Keith engaged in a few practice matches for some of the other members of the gym, and in the middle of one match that turned completely to wrestling, the crowd was interrupted by Shiro stepped down from the observation room. Keith had the guy in a headlock, only to drop it when he realized Shiro was coming towards them. A turf accountant was heading out of the gym, heavy shoulders masked in a tux. 

His eyes followed the accountant until Shiro whistled for them to get out of the ring. Keith let go of the guy and pushed himself to his feet.

Shiro held up the top rubber wire so Keith could slide through underneath it. He hopped down to ground level, rubbing sweat off his brow. “What is it?” he asked.

Shiro nodded up to the observation room, and after a glance at the other members of the gym, they all seemed to disperse away from them. Alone, Shiro said, “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

“The last time you said that you took me to The Quilted Lion,” Keith argued, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not gettin’ a third job.”

“It’s not that,” he promised, nudging Keith alongside him. He walked with Shiro to the stairs, and together they walked up the steps.

Inside, Shiro swiped a poster off his desk and held it out to Keith. Keith read it over quickly with a scowl on his face. “A championship? Don’t you have to be selected for it, you can’t just _enter_ things like this,” he said, tossing the poster to the side. He remembered a few years back when one of the senior boxers at the gym was selected for a championship like that. The fighters were crowd-selected, not exactly a “fill out a form” type of deal.

“The manager of the event just visited. He says your name came up in the discussion, based on the rosters from previous fights. And your wins are… impressive. He was impressed,” Shiro said, folding his arms with a shrug. Keith looked down at the championship poster and rubbed a hand over the side of his face. He’d been in rookie tournaments—just two or three, nothing intense or serious about it except for the bets involved. 

His first tournament was the reason Shiro found him at all. He came in without a coach, a manager— _nothing_. Those types of guys were just considered throwaways for the real players, but as it turned out, Keith wasn’t a throwaway. Even without proper training, Keith managed to make it through the tournament until being taken out in the last round. Shiro recruited him after that.

“What’s the time frame?” he asked. “I’ll have to ask off work.”

“It’s not for another two weeks,” he said. “After the New Year. Depending on the amount of participants, it’s over the course of a weekend, weigh ins are at the start of the first day.”

Keith nodded, reaching for the poster again. They had one massive goal for all the participants to aim for, and to say Keith was tempted would be an understatement. He couldn’t get those ten thousand dollars out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [OatMeals](http://www.oatmealsny.com/) is a real place in Greenwich Village and I love it so much. Also, in case you haven't been to NYC or watched _Sex and the City_ , then I should probably mention that "Greenwich" is pronounced "Gren-itch". 
> 
> I'm so excited. The supposed slow burn won't last long *diabolical laughter on loop*


	4. Casual Chats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith engages in verbal and physical fights that include, but are not limited to, Lance and Allura.

“Hunk’s straight. No need to worry about him,” Nyma said, and by some miracle Keith managed to hold back a sigh of relief. They were standing no more than a block from The Quilted Lion—Nyma was one of the five numbers on his cellphone with an actual name to it. Despite his insistence to tell him after his shift, she “forced” him to do so before. He figured she probably had other things to worry about tonight aside from letting Keith know about his odds with Lance.

“And also, I hope you realize that Lance is a flirt. It doesn’t matter about the gender. I’m just saying you have a lot of competition there, ya know?” she said, stuffing her hands into her armpits as a gust of wind howled through the street. “Like, it’s hard to tell what his type is to begin with. But I guess that doesn’t really matter to you.”

“Not really,” he confessed, glancing behind him. On the far corner of the next block, he could see the baby blue café sign sticking out. “I should get going. Thanks for scoping out the situation for me, and all that.”

“Sure thing. Their gelato is amazing, but you still owe me.”

“What if I get you more gelato?” he asked, and he smirked when she narrowed her eyes at him. She shouldn’t have given him her weakness, especially when straight up cash seemed like a more tempting offer. No one could resist gelato, especially Nyma, evidently. “I’ll bring some to the gym. See you around.”

“Yeah, see ya.” With that, she turned on her heels and took a diagonal turn across the street, avoiding the slushy spray of a nearby car.

Keith hurried to the back of the café and shut the iron gate behind him, along with the pure white door. He shed his coat and hung it, replacing it with a kitchen shirt. The second he stepped into the kitchen Coran whisked him to the sink and they set to work. They were clearing through the post-morning rush, just around lunch time when people got spent their breaks at The Quilted Lion. Allura was just as preppy as ever, humming to herself as she whipped up espresso drinks in aesthetic floral-printed mugs for Lance to take to the tables.

The second Lance spun into the kitchen, he halted at the sight of Coran teaching Keith the basics of Allura’s trick—at least, the assistant’s help with it. He was dousing a cup of flour into the liquid-y dough when Lance burst in on his right. Coran spiraled the dough together, the consistency thickening before he spun it into a semi-thin line. Keith took a knife and divided it, plucking apart the sections of dough and placing it onto a pan for baking.

Lance stepped up to the other side of the counter, sticking a ticket into the orders rack. He leant against the surface, watching Coran and Keith work before saying, “Coran, you know I saw Keith the other day? His girlfriend goes to my university.”

Keith couldn’t believe his luck. He hoped endlessly that Lance would bring it up. “Pidge isn’t my girlfriend. We just live together,” he corrected, and after a split second of thought that told him _don’t say it, don’t say it_ —he said it anyways. “Besides, I’m not really into women.”

He turned away before he could see the look on Lance’s face, and grinned like an idiot when he heard Coran burst out laughing in the middle of putting the pastries into the oven.

  


  


“We’ve got new shipments—they brought them to the back of the shop. They’re a bit heavy so, Lance, if you could help K—” Allura started, but Keith shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. I can handle it,” he said, brushing his hands off on the sides of his kitchen shirt. “Besides, Lance has to stay up front.”

At this, Lance scoffed and waved his hand dismissively, passing Keith on the way to the back hall. “Come on, you can’t be serious. I don’t think you realize just how heavy _food supplies_ can be,” he said, and Keith raised an eyebrow at Allura who shrugged, agreeing with Lance.

Keith rolled his eyes and headed after Lance to the back door. They left it propped open while Lance stepped out to haul a box from the ground. “You get one side and I’ll take the other—”

“Seriously, I can handle this,” Keith argued, grabbing Lance by the shoulder and pushing him back a ways. If Keith could bench twice his weight, he could handle a goddamn box of baking supplies.

He bent his knees down and wedged his fingers underneath the box. A moment later he swiftly lifted it from the ground and was off through the door. He looked back to see Lance struggling with the other box, so he hurriedly set his box on one of the kitchen counters before coming out and snatching Lance’s box from him. “Your back is flimsy. If you carry it like that you’ll snap it in half,” he chastised.

“How would you know anyway?” Lance argued, huffing as he crossed his arms, following Keith inside. Keith pushed the box higher in his arms and placed it atop the other one. “ _Showoff_.”

“Lifting is kind of my thing,” he said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. It was just his competitive nature that led him to lifting. Of course, Shiro required it in his workout regimen now, but before it used to be a hassle. 

When he turned to the door away, Lance was standing there with narrow eyes and—Keith was certain there was a difference in the hue of his entire face. He brushed past Lance, avoiding the fact that Lance practically slammed himself against the opposite wall to avoid touching Keith. The cool air from the open door hit Keith like a brick to the face. He wondered if he was coming off too strong—maybe showing off wasn’t the way to win Lance.

He hoped he hadn’t made him uncomfortable—or God forbid _embarrassed_ —for showing him up by carrying the shipments with little to no effort. 

When he came in again, Lance was still in the same spot. He set the second-to-last box on the counter and said, “Before this I worked at a Target warehouse. I’m used to carrying boxes around too, I guess.”

“Seriously? That seems like… a boring job,” he said, squinting harder at Keith.

He laughed and shrugged, “It was. Which is why I’m not there anymore. And also because full-time at a warehouse isn’t exactly _great_.”

Lance followed him to the door as he asked, “So I’m guessing you aren’t in school now, huh? Since you worked full-time there.”

Keith hesitated, and after hoisting up the box said, “Yeah, not in school. Money’s kind of a factor in that.”

“That sucks,” he said quietly. “I don’t mean to pry or anything… Sometimes I ask too many questions.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Keith said, grinning as they crossed paths. “You can close the door. I think this is it.”

It was already dark out, but then again, winter seriously fucked up the sun so it got dark stupidly early anyways. The clock was nearing closing time, which explained why Lance was bored enough to assist with unloading the supplies. He helped Keith figure out where everything went—from the syrups for drinks to which freezer the lettuce heads went in. When they meandered behind the front counter with box of flavor syrups, Allura was in the midst of dramatically throwing together drinks. It reminded Keith of the few bars he went to with bartenders who used magic. 

With just a flick of her wrist, the steamed milk sputtered on and the stream of it looped together with the liquid chai mix spiraling in the air. She had such control over the liquid, not allowing a single drop to be displaced. There weren’t many customers this time of night, but those who were there came to watch. 

Lance put out a cup for the customer to hold onto. They pushed it out onto the counter—evidently knowing the procedure. Allura dispensed the liquid, hands arcing towards the counter, where the steamed, honey chai swirled into the cup with a delicate white froth on top. She placed her hands over the top and hummed to herself before lifting it, and displaying a picturesque flower etched into the foam. 

“Enjoy!” she said, beaming at the customer. A round of claps went around as she washed her hands off in the sink and nodded for Lance and Keith to pass through. 

Keith nudged the box onto the floor and started organizing the glass bottles. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Lance went to check in on one of the tables before heading to the front counter and leaning across it. That seemed to be the waiting space for the waiters.

Keith began to compile a Nyma Method List. With what happened concerning the boxes, he determined that Lance wasn’t the sort of guy to compare himself physically to Keith. In other words, he wasn’t out for a testosterone battle and for whatever reason that nullified Keith’s nerves on the matter. He’d been with one other guy who was like that and while the competition was fun, it made the rest of their relationship ridiculously childish.

“Wait—” Lance’s voice dragged him out of his list. “So where are you from originally? If you didn’t come here for school.”

Keith hesitated for a second before nudging a bottle onto the rack. “San Antonio. I moved here when I was seventeen.”

“Wow, really?” Lance gawked. Keith couldn’t help but laugh a little because he sounded surprise that San Antonio even existed—or perhaps it was the “seventeen” part.

“Lance, no distracting him. Shoo, shoo! Help Coran in the kitchen,” Allura chastised, waving her hands at Lance like he was a stray cat out by the dumpster. The sour look on his face told Keith that if he was a cat, he would have hissed like one.

Lance groaned and swung around the counter and through the kitchen door. The moment he was gone Allura bent down next to Keith. She readjusted a line of white chocolate syrups. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell us everything,” she said quietly, “I understand that you’re here to work, and The Quilted Lion is like a… family to me. But if you ever want to talk about anything… with me, I mean—I’d be happy to listen.”

Keith paused to scowl at the box, trying to wonder what made Allura think he had stuff to talk _about_. He wondered if it was all that obvious that Keith had problems—just with life in general. He never thought he looked like a particularly… _traumatized_ kid.

But then he thought—

“Did… my uncle say anything about that?” he asked, cringing a little at both the idea of calling Shiro “uncle”, and the idea that Shiro talked to Allura about him. 

“He may have mentioned something about it,” she said slowly, and he resisted the urge to groan. Of _course_ Shiro would put him out to be a troubled kid. “So if you ever need someone to talk to—”

“Honestly, I’m fine. He just likes to over exaggerate things,” he played it off with a shrug as he stood up and brushed his knees clean. “Everything’s fine. I’m not—I mean, there’s nothing _wrong_ with me…”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting that,” she said quickly, jumping to her feet, white ponytail swishing. She looked at him for a long moment, and he felt his cheeks go hot. “Anyway, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re all family here so… I just want you to feel comfortable in your work environment and all that. And if Lance causes you any trouble, let me know. Sometimes it’s hard to keep him in line.”

“I _heard that!_ ” Lance squeaked from the back, bursting through the kitchen window and leaning over to peg Allura with a glare. “I stay in line!”

“Most of the time. You like to push your limits, I’d say,” she laughed. “For instance, eavesdropping on conversations I’m having with people who _aren’t_ you.” 

Lance pouted and the effect caused his cheeks to puff out, and Keith just couldn’t get over it. He lived in fucking NYC and saw new faces every goddamn day, but none of them seemed to have that adorable, caramel-kissed skin and that captivating pouty-face that said do-everything-to-make-me-happy-dammit. 

Of course, unlike Keith, Allura was completely immune to it. Her half-lidded eyes and raised eyebrows were enough to ward away any puppy-dog face. “You do realize we still have customers to tend to for another fifteen minutes.”

“ _Fifteen minutes!_ Fifteen minutes!” Lance repeated, exasperated, slumping on the kitchen window sill. “But—!”

“Or would you prefer working behind the counter while I chat with the customers?” she suggested, quirking an eyebrow at him. A challenging look came to Lance’s expression, and back-lit by the vibrant kitchen lights, he looked determined. 

“Can I?” he said, entirely serious. Keith stifled a laugh when Allura grinned and motioned for Lance to come up front.

Keith swept up the empty box and stepped out of Lance’s way when he came cruising in from the kitchen. Allura held open the door for Keith, so he meandered back into the kitchen and dispensed of the box among all the other empty ones. Allura wandered into the sitting area and started chatting up regulars while Lance leaned in from the kitchen and said, “Hey Coran, can I steal Keith for a second?”

“Go ahead!” he hollered. “But not long—I need help cleaning up the kitchen!”

“It will seriously take two minutes,” he promised, and motioned for Keith to step up to the other side of the window sill. “What do you like?” he asked, serious voice now hushed.

_You_.

“Um, what do you mean?”

“Drink-wise. You seem like a black coffee kinda guy, but give me something exciting,” he said, wriggling his shoulders excitedly. 

Keith leant an arm against the sill and thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t like black coffee—Pidge drinks it black but it’s too bitter for me. I don’t know. I’ve never really tried much.”

Lance gawked at him, and laughed like he couldn’t believe it. “Geez, okay. Well… I’ll just make my favorite and you can tell me what you think. Deal?” He held out a hand to Keith, who stared at it before taking it.

“Wait—so you’re making me something?” he clarified, and Lance nodded fast before spiraling away to the espresso machine. Lance hadn’t even started making the drink and Keith knew he’d love it either way. Besides, his situation didn’t exactly warrant pickiness when it came to food and drinks.

Lance had the same flare, if not more, than Allura. While Allura was wispy, whimsical, just like her shop, Lance was fluid and stayed in beat with the music drifting softly through the café speakers. Keith leant against the window sill and watched as Lance tossed the syrup bottle into an arc and twisted it, dispensing peppermint flavor among fragments of white chocolatey goodness. The dash of espresso turned the mixture into a deep golden color, which he then curled into a white mug and topped with a dollop of cream. Keith wasn’t sure what to look at—the process, or the sensual sway of Lance’s hips during the entire process.

Lance nudged it across the sill and jumped up to sit on the counter in front of it. “Allura’s magic sort of tastes like hazelnuts, but mine’s more of a… spearmint flavor? I don’t know. It’s kind of leaves a cold aftertaste so I made it extra hot. You can let it sit though—”

“I order most of my drinks extra hot so I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said, and lifted the cup up with both hands. He tipped the edge of it against his lips, and sucked in the frothy whip cream with a hum. He could already taste the peppermint specs underneath.

It was a sort of spiced chai with espresso, at least, that’s what it tasted like to Keith. It was sweeter than expected, perhaps because of the sugary mint and as it scorched down Keith’s throat, it turned cool and soothing. He imagined it’d be a perfect drink if he happened to have a sore throat. He reminded himself that if he or Pidge ever came down with a cold, he’d bring them here for a drink of Lance’s peppermint chai.

“What do you think?” Lance asked, blue eyes eager.

“It’s _really_ good,” Keith practically moaned, and doused it all in another huge gulp.

“Slow down there before you die or something,” he laughed, tugging Keith’s arm down a bit. “But really? You like it?”

“Yeah, why would I lie about that?” he said, licking the foam off his upper lip and glancing over at Lance. The guy hesitated for a second, eyebrows high before he swallowed down whatever it was bothering him.

“I don’t know. I just—I’m not exactly a _barista_ like Allura. It’s just something I taught myself from classes. She’s my professor over at the university, and a part of the class is about experimentation,” he explained. “Sometimes they don’t all turn out great.”

“I don’t see how you could mess this up,” Keith argued. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Before either of them could say anything more on the subject, Coran called Keith back to work. He took the mug with him, sipping on it every now and then between washing dishes and cleaning the floors. 

  


  


Keith saw his name on the posters. _Kogane_. A lot of the fighters used fake names—most of them fake surnames. It was something Shiro came up with, as a combination of “Keith” and “Shirogane”. If anyone had beef with Keith, they’d most likely go to Shiro first then, considering the correlation and the fact that Shiro was far better known than Keith was.

Nyma accompanied Keith to other gyms around the area, and outside of the area. They didn’t exactly go to work out—they weren’t members of the gym, just spectators. He bought the two of them a sub to split, and as they sat on the steps leading down into the workout area of a gym in western borough—Hell’s Kitchen. It was a bit nicer than theirs, in Keith’s opinion, but he didn’t voice that.

“I’m gonna go chat up some of the fellas,” she said to him. “Figure out if Ulaz is around here today.”

“Good plan,” he said, and took her sandwich so she could scope out the area. When he finished his own half, it took everything in his power not to eat Nyma’s half.

Ulaz was one of the names on the roster, and just like any other fight Nyma was in, she wanted to scope out the guy. Her name was also on the board somewhere, and it wasn’t uncommon for people of the same gym to team up unless the fight happened to bring the two of them together at the end. Keith wasn’t sure if he’d end up fighting Nyma himself, or if she’d be taken out in one of the other brackets.

She flirted with some of the fellas on the floor and came back with information. “He’s coming in later. You want to leave and come back?” she asked.

Keith rubbed his thumb over the corner of his lip before shaking his head. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye out. Here—” He handed her the other half of the sub. She tore into it with an aggressive bite and said, “Have fun, Kogane,” before heading out.

He heard the door swing open behind her and barely finished crumpling up his wrapper before he was approached by a guy walking in. “You Kogane?” the voice said, leading Keith to glance up at him.

The guy was probably six foot—not to mention his wide-ass shoulders and sharp, squarish jawline. Keith scowled at him, and the severe look on the guy’s face was seriously concerning. He stood up and chucked his sub wrapper into the bin at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Yeah, who’s asking?” Keith asked, turning on him.

The instant he did, he was hit in the side of the face with a fist, the backlash of it sending him tripping down the steps. His vision skewed as he clawed for a handhold on the railing. He toppled to the ground level of the gym, groaning as he shouted, “ _What the fuck?!_ ” 

The guy jumped the steps and reached down for Keith’s shirt. He hauled Keith’s chest off the ground and hammered him _hard_ again in the jaw. Keith’s sputtered blood from the oozing gash on the inside of his cheek, and the guy retracted, hissing and shaking his most likely fucked-up hand from the hit.

By that point some guys started to notice, and before the guy recovered enough to attack Keith again, someone jumped on him from behind and jammed their forearm underneath his chin, cranking his head back. Keith scrambled to his knees, head swimming as he watched Nyma take the guy down from behind and jam his head into the ground.

“What the hell’d you do that for!” she screamed at him. The guy groaned so she slammed his cheek into the ground again. “You fuck up my friend, I fuck you up! You got that? Say it!”

She rammed his head back down again and he cursed and sputtered, “Okay! Okay—I got it. Let go of me you bitch!”

Nyma looked over at Keith, who was massaging the bruise growing on his jaw. He gave a shrug, so she thrust the guy back down and hopped to her feet, ponytail swishing.

“You’ve got some nerves comin’ to a competitor’s gym, kid,” the guy hissed at Keith, standing up to meet him face to face. 

“You Ulaz?” Keith asked, eyes narrow.

“No, but I know of him. And I know ‘bout you and your little _‘tricks’_ ,” he snapped, taking another step towards him. Nyma stepped between them and shoved the guy back. They were starting to get quite a crowd going in the gym. Keith realized that it probably wasn’t the greatest thing to be around a competitor’s gym, especially now that they knew exactly what he looked like. 

“Freaks like you aren’t allowed in tournaments, Kogane,” the guy spat, and with one last glare at Keith and Nyma, he walked off and shoved between the gathering crowd.

Keith glanced over all of them before grabbing Nyma by the arm and hauling her towards the door. He could tell she was about to get belligerent—which was never a good thing, especially with Keith in this condition. He wouldn’t be much help when he couldn’t see past the swelling of his left eye.

“I’m gonna tear that guy to _pieces_ ,” she seethed as she slammed through the doors of the gym. “Who does he think he is? Callin’ you out like that, just ‘cause you’re one of the best in the league?”

Keith groaned, tilting his head back and falling against the cool brick of the building. The breeze felt nice. He didn’t realize how much his bruises were throbbing until they got out on the street. “Thanks for comin’ back,” he said. He skimmed the inside of his mouth with is tongue and spat out some blood. Reaching in with a finger, he tested the structure of his teeth. All in place. Just a tear.

“Well, s’not like I was gonna leave you after hearing that fight break out. I thought you were toast the second you fell down the stairs,” she said, shoving her hands into her armpits and glancing down the street. “We should get out of here. You want me to dig up some snow for your eye?”

He scoffed and pushed off the wall, following after her down the street. “Nah, I’d rather not get bacteria in my eye from putting that shitty snow on my skin,” he laughed. She threw her head back and laughed so loud Keith was sure people two blocks away could hear her. 

She shoved him in the arm and said, “Fine then, come by my place and I’ll get you a not-shitty ice pack for the walk home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If someone asks me if I do drugs, I'll tell them I do fanfiction."
> 
> Imma post tomorrow because I can't hold back on you guys. I'm so thrilled.


	5. Fear Of The Dark

Keith left Nyma and her mother’s apartment in time to make it to work that afternoon. He was thankful he decided to wear his gloves that day—sometimes he forgot, but now they seriously came in handy when it came to holding an ice pack to his face across the streets of the East Side. They had to take a train to her apartment, but at least it was closer to Greenwich Village than his own apartment. It was a simple five minute walk there.

He nudged open the back door with his hip and shed his coat off. He bit his ice pack between his teeth so he could throw on the kitchen shirt and tie his hair up. In the middle of finishing that whole procedure, he was surprised to find… a familiar bulky guy come barging through, yelling behind him, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you later Coran! Have a nice— _holy shit_ your face!”

Keith paused in the hallway and stared bug-eyed at Hunk, who stood, floored, in the entrance of the kitchen. Keith finished off his ponytail and put the ice pack over his eye. “Yeah, well—” he started.

“What happened to you? Doesn’t that hurt?” Hunk squeaked, and when he got closer he slapped his hands over his eyes. “Oh, God—I don’t like the sight of blood…”

“It’s not _bleeding_ ,” Keith argued.

“It’s on your lip! Oh, no, I’m gonna be sick—” Hunk cried out, running past Keith to the bathroom beside the basement door. He burst through and slammed the door shut. Not a second later he heard the telltale sounds of Hunk hurling up his lunch.

By that point Coran was running through the door and skidding over to Keith. “It’s fine—I can still work. It doesn’t even hurt,” Keith insisted. 

Coran silenced him with a dramatic wave of his hand. He tilted Keith’s chin to the side and assessed the heavy, throbbing bruising on Keith’s jawline, and then his eye. “Where’s this blood coming from?” he asked.

“Inside of my cheek—musta cut it on my teeth,” Keith said. “But I can work—”

“Let me go get Allura. Usually we can’t let employees work if there’s blood involved—sanitary problems. But usually if it’s a paper cut or something we can bandage, then it’s fine,” he told him, and Keith’s heart nearly stopped. He _had_ to work today. He couldn’t bandage a fucking cut on the inside of his cheek. 

The bathroom door unlocked and Keith cringed at the sound of Hunk gasping, nauseous. “C-Coran, I need some water…” Hunk groaned.

“Hold on, big guy. Gotta get the woman in charge,” he said and whisked off through the kitchen. “Keith, stay there. It’ll just be a minute.”

Keith was frozen in the hallway, all except for his incessantly pulsing face. It felt like his heart was trying to tell him that even if he could scrape by with just street boxing, The Quilted Lion provided him… what? Assurance? And if he couldn’t work there, what other workplace would want him if he came up with a bruised face every now and again? He hated health regulations. He didn’t have any viruses, diseases, as far as he could tell. He never did drugs. He didn’t share needles. He didn’t smoke, or—

“—at do you mean he’s injured?” He heard Allura’s voice as she pushed through the kitchen doors, Coran in tow. 

“He says he can still work but—” Coran said, but by that point Allura could see Keith sulking in the hallway, Hunk leaning against the bathroom doorway practically panting for water. Allura’s sharp blue eyes were wide as she came to the hallway, white hair slicked back into a braided bun. She folded her arms over her chest as she peered down at Keith with that scrutinizing look of a mother.

Oh God.

Keith never felt the urge to cry so much in his life. The sensation of it lodged itself in his throat and he panicked at the bizarre feeling. He couldn’t breathe.

Keith reached up a hand and rubbed the back of it over his mouth. A smear of red showed up on it and he thought he might throw up. Hunk actually gagged a little behind him and ejected the contents of his stomach into the bathroom toilet.

“I swear it’s not actually bleeding anymore. It’s just leftover stuff,” Keith said quietly. “I’ll clean up. I can work. I swear it doesn’t hurt and it won’t hinder my ability to work in the kitchen. Please.”

He couldn’t believe his voice hitched at the end. He wished he could crawl into a hole and die. 

Allura glanced at Coran, who looked completely lost. He shrugged before crossing his arms tightly over his chest. She sighed and rubbed a hand over her hair before saying, “Well, you’re already in uniform. I guess… you can clean up _thoroughly_. Not a spec of blood enters my kitchen. You got that? Use the bathroom over where… Hunk is.”

Keith lit up instantly and nodded, not trusting his own voice. The instant Allura went back to the front, Keith spun towards the bathroom and nearly rammed straight into Hunk. The big guy moved off to the side and begged Coran for a glass of water again. 

Keith shut the door behind him and instantly went to the sink. He set his ice pack aside and rinsed off his hands before scrubbing it over his bruised eye and jaw. He swished water repeatedly in his mouth and spat out pink liquid down the drain until it came out clear again. When it came time to actually leave the bathroom, he practically slammed into Lance, who was lingering outside the door with a quizzical look on his face. Hunk was behind him, chugging water.

“ _Oh_ , geez,” Lance shrieked, staggering back and leaning into Hunk. “You weren’t kidding.”

“It isn’t that bad,” Keith argued, wishing he could glare.

“You… say that like you’ve had it worse. Have you? Had it worse than that? Because that’s pretty bad in my opinion. I mean, I’ve only gotten slapped a handful of times but those things don’t last very long,” he said, rambling as he looked to Hunk for backup. The big guy agreed.

Keith narrowed his eye at them before brushing past and heading for the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly his plan to involve any of them in this. He seriously hoped they’d act like Pidge and ignore it, but evidently that wasn’t the case at The Quilted Lion.

Coran hesitantly swept Keith back into the usual gist of things. He was used to being assigned dishwashing duties, or simple, mundane tasks like chopping up fruits for tarts and other pastry treats. General prepping of food like chopping up lemons for waters, tearing up heads of lettuce, dicing tomatoes for Coran’s savory sauces. Hunk left before long, and thankfully it happened to be a busy dinner hour, so Lance and Allura had little time for questioning Keith.

He dreaded the inevitable questions. He already came up with a response to the big, “What happened?” question. Coran, of course, was the first to ask not long after Keith set to work. 

“Someone attempted to mug me on the way here,” he said.

“Well, I hope the other guy looks worse.”

“Don’t worry—he definitely does,” he lied with a grin. The blade of his knife bit down into the cutting board one slice after another, severing strawberries in two. Coran gave him a pat on the back.

Later that evening when the rush died down abruptly, Keith delivered a vegetarian roll onto the kitchen window sill, and an instant later Lance spun in to grab it—almost like he was waiting for the delivery just to the right of the window. 

There were things in this world that reminded Keith of why he was still here. Pidge, for one, and the look on Lance’s face was another. He couldn’t believe how unimaginably perfect Lance looked, in every sort of mood. Annoyed, exhausted, thrilled, mockingly-angry—he couldn’t imagine Lance was capable of _real_ anger. The sort of anger Keith was familiar with. 

Lance held the plate up to the side and leaned an elbow against the windowsill. “You want another drink tonight?” he asked, eyebrows high and eyes spirited as ever.

“Same drink or different drink?”

“Whatever you like.”

Keith couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh at that, and turn away with a smile. “I mean, if you happen to experiment I wouldn’t mind.”

Lance beamed at him for the longest second—it was probably six seconds, actually, which was a sufficient amount of time for Keith to realize they were both staring at one another. Keith moved back a little, resisting the urge to smirk when Lance blinked and came back to himself, nearly dropping the plate when he stepped back and bumped his hip into the counter. 

“Oops! Oh, gosh, sorry I—I’ll do that as soon as I, um, yeah. Get back to work! Stop lallygagging, Keith,” Lance burst out, and ran before Keith could define the shade of red Lance’s cheeks were.

Keith turned back to Coran, and was surprised that Coran was the first of them to burst out laughing. Keith chuckled and walked over, shoving Coran in the arm and saying, “Get back to work, _Coran_.”

By the time he and Coran finished cleaning up the kitchen, Keith had his favorite BLT sandwich with an additional bit of avocado. He brought it up to the front where Allura was sitting at the bar-style countertop, perched on one of the baby blue retro stools. Keith hesitated at the sight of Shiro there with her, eyebrows pulled tight as Allura talked hush-hush to him. 

When he showed up, Allura stopped talking. 

“Keith,” Shiro said, standing up.

Keith set his plate on the counter, cringing a little when it clattered onto the surface. “What are you doing?” he asked, knowing it probably looked like he was scowling. 

Shiro stepped back from the counter, and Keith could _feel_ Allura’s eyes on him. Shiro nodded his head towards the exit and started walking, expecting Keith to follow. A general message that Keith couldn’t ignore.

Keith stepped around the counter and followed after the bossman. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, bracing himself for the cold. Outside the front of The Quilted Lion, there were soft white flakes highlighted blue from the sign overhead. The electric blue coated the top of Shiro’s black hair, and the sharp, crooked turn of his nose. One too many broken noses and one surgery later, Shiro’s nose was a physical signature, down to the wrinkle below his brow when he was pissed as all hell. 

“What the hell’d I tell you?” he hissed the second the door shut. “Did you think I was _joking?_ Huh?”

“ _No_ , I didn’t!” Keith snapped back, jaw tense. It was throbbing harder by the second. 

“How the hell’d this happen anyway? Weren’t you an Nyma checking out gyms?” he demanded, hands on his hips. Keith pushed his hands through his hair with a groan.

“ _Yes_ , we _were_ —one of Ulaz’s… I dunno, _thugs_ attacked me! I’m not exactly a fan with the competitors, you know!” He wished he could scream his lungs out, but by some miracle managed to contain it in a furious hiss. “I didn’t engage in the fight! Nyma took him down and we walked—that’s it. It wasn’t my fault—”

They both hesitated as someone walked by. Keith’s shoulders were tense as he stepped back from Shiro, furious at being accused like that. “I wouldn’t start a fight outside of matches anyway,” he said once the street corner was quiet again.

“I knew that—which is why I was pissed when Allura confronted me about it. As long as it wasn’t you then,” his boss said, sighing. He pressed a hand over his eye before drawing it down the side of his face. “Don’t let it happen again. So much for avoiding unwanted attention.”

Keith scoffed and muttered, “I know…” 

They stood out in the cold together until Shiro said, “I’ll talk to the owner of that gym, and have Nyma vouch for you. We’ll get that guy taken care of.”

“Thanks.”

Shiro studied Keith for a moment, taking a step back from The Quilted Lion. “And… stay safe. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow for training. Black eye or not.”

Keith huffed, but smiled anyway as he watched Shiro cross the street. He stared after the bossman before a shiver crept down his spine, so he headed back into the café, arms shaking and nose red. He brushed his feet on the “ _Hello there!_ ” mat before shuffling across the tiles back to where he abandoned his dinner. 

“Is everything all right with you and Takashi?” Allura asked when he hesitated at the counter. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said, about to turn to one of the booths—probably to find Lance, but he swiftly realized that Lance was behind the counter. Wow, he was out of it. 

Allura patted the seat beside her, so Keith slumped into the spot. She asked what happened, before he came into work. He repeated what he’d told Coran. The other guy was worse off—and if it had been a match, Keith was _certain_ the guy would have been worse off. But that just wasn’t the case.

A moment later Keith noticed he was still staring at his sandwich when someone nudged a mug towards him. He looked up and realized Lance had made him something. He was disappointed he didn’t get to see the process this time around. “Thanks,” he said, surprised.

“Honestly you deserve it,” Lance said, grinning. “One of my biggest fears—well, okay, I have a lot of fears, but _one of them_ —is getting mugged. Like, we live in one of the biggest cities which ultimately means the chances of running into bad people is higher.”

“Don’t scare Keith…” Allura groaned, her hand rubbing up and down Keith’s back.

“I’m not trying—!”

“It’s fine. It’s not one of my fears,” Keith reassured them with a shrug. “I can take care of myself pretty well in those situations. When I… lived in San Antonio, I—I took self-defense classes and all that stuff.”

After saying it, Keith lifted the mug to his lips and felt the life come back to him in a wisp of chocolatey goodness. He nearly forgot to breathe until halfway through, and Allura laughed from beside him. “I’m glad you like Lance’s drinks. Maybe I should have him behind the counter more often.”

“Nah, tips aren’t as good,” Lance remarked with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Keith laughed, grinning around the rim of the floral-printed mug. He tipped it back and drank the rest of it down, licking the foam off his upper lip. Allura left to head upstairs, telling Lance to close up the front. She stayed in back with Coran for a while until the kitchen lights turned off, and they heard the back door shut. 

Keith finished up half his sandwich before packaging it up. During that time, Lance finished cleaning up behind the counter and locked the front door. Keith came back to the front where the lights were on, and after a moment of studying Lance as he tugged on a beanie and unwrapped his headphones, he decided to say something he knew was a risk he wasn’t willing to take that first day.

“Are you always scared to walk home?” he asked, and the question seemed to throw Lance off guard.

The guy offered a weak smile and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, but then again, I’m kind of afraid of everything. You don’t see me screaming every time I’m in the dark—another fear of mine,” Lance said, and Keith scoffed a little. “What about you?”

“No. My… old job usually ended super late. I’m used to walking around at night,” he said. After a hesitant moment, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Would you… want me to walk you to your sub station? I wouldn’t mind.”

Lance didn’t say anything at first, so Keith continued. “I mean, you’re the one who always walks home with a backpack full of tip money which… isn’t exactly the safest mode of transferring money from one place to another.”

“You wanna be my bodyguard for the night,” Lance said, but it came out as a sort of question that sent heat to Keith’s cheeks. Before he could stammer out something ridiculous, Lance’s lips split into a grin. “Hell yeah! Let’s go! And since we’re out I might as well buy you a drink since all the bars are open this time of night. I have a backpack full of money to spend!”

Keith could never believe his luck when it decided to show up.

So Lance walked him out the back door and locked the iron gate behind them. He grabbed Keith by the arm and towed him towards the road before stuffing his hands in his pockets. “So tell me, where’s the best place to get a drink around here?” Keith asked. “Something that _doesn’t_ cost fifteen dollars a drink.”

Lance chuckled, smile still as dazzling as usual. “No worries there. Follow me.”

They walked several blocks in relative silence. Lance’s hat was collecting white dust and Keith’s black hair was turning whiter by the minute. He didn’t mind the cold, except perhaps what it did to his ears. There were days when he went on runs without a hat of some sort, and he came back with split, dry skin on his ears. Oh the wonders of winter.

And then, Lance spotted the bar.

He yelped excitedly, startling Keith out of his thoughts. Suddenly his arm lurched forward, followed by the rest of his body when Lance dragged him by the arm, making a beeline across the street before a taxi could run them over. Keith skidded onto the sidewalk curb and slid on the iron grate over the sewer. Lance coughed, holding Keith by both arms as he said, “I _hate_ the smell of New York! Everything else is fine but it just smells like fuckin’… like Lake Michigan. It smells like Lake Michigan.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Keith laughed, following Lance to the door and holding it open for him. They climbed the steps and stomped the snow off their boots. “So you really did live in Wisconsin then? What’s Milwaukee like?”

Lance hummed for a moment as they took their seats at the bar. Keith set his wrapped-up sandwich on the counter. “Well… it’s a lot like NYC in the sense that… it’s dirty. Not all of it’s dirty though! There’s some good parts. Like, Greenwich Village here is the Third Ward there and there’s all these parallels but essentially Milwaukee is New York without the excessive amount of taxis. You know? What’d you want—what do you usually drink?”

“I don’t know. Surprise me.”

“Why must I always make the decisions? Whatever,” Lance scoffed and waved to the bartender excitedly. He greeted the guy by name, and introduced Keith to him before ordering their drinks. There were a few other people at the bar, mostly condensed towards the television screen on the other side displaying something involving football. 

Keith turned back to Lance, who had both arms on the counter, drumming his hands against the surface. “Did you have a job like this at home too?” Keith asked.

Lance shrugged and said, “I dunno. I had a lot of different jobs. I didn’t like the idea of settling down in one of those restaurant traps. You know, where you start working at a place in high school, and you just stay there after graduation saying that _maybe_ one day you’ll move out of your parents’ house, and _maybe_ one day you’ll get a _real_ job and go to college.”

“That’s a valid reason.”

“Yeah. So I’m in college here now and sort of in the whole restaurant trap with Allura but it’s fine because I’m not living at my parents’ place. And I also have my own shitty apartment so it all works out,” he said, grinning as the bartender slid their drinks over. Keith’s was in a classic old fashion glass, but he’d had enough old fashions to know the taste of one. This was unfamiliar except for the tinge of vodka in it and… was that coffee?

He coughed a little, and Lance sputtered around the rim of his glass. He laughed, gauging Keith’s reaction before Keith stammered, “What did you get me?”

Lance threw his head back laughing—and goddamn he had a loud laugh, but Keith didn’t mind it at all. “It’s a Black Russian cocktail! You don’t like it?”

“No—no, it’s fine. And also it sounds kind of _racist_. Who came up with that name?” he choked out, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Lance giggled again, leaning in as Keith shook his head. “I’m sorry—I don’t drink vodka all that often. Hang on.”

Keith took a few more sips of the rich, reddish liquid before getting into the swing of things. He set his half-empty glass down and said, “And I’m only doing one of these ‘cause I still gotta walk you to the station.”

Lance tipped his martini glass into Keith’s. “Deal.”

Several drinks later, Keith felt giddy and more touch-feely than usual, and by some miracle of _God_ , Lance didn’t even mind. They stumbled out of the restaurant not because they were flat out wasted, but because Lance kept trying to trip Keith on the way down the stairs. They were laughing so hard Keith thought he might hack up a lung. He hadn’t laughed that hard since Pidge snorted soda out her nose a while back.

They managed to make it to the sub station and Keith stood with Lance on the near-empty platform. “Let me sit on the train with you. You’re drunk,” he said.

Lance shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Sure.”

“I don’t want you getting murdered on the train.”

At that, Lance snorted, slapping Keith on the arm. “I’m not gonna get _murdered_. I’m too pretty to be murdered.”

“Some people don’t treat pretty things right. One time Pidge’s grandma made her this gorgeous quilted blanket and she spilled cranberry juice on it. _Cranberry juice_! That shit doesn’t come out. It’s easier to get blood out than cranberry juice.”

“Sounds like you speak from _experience_. How’s your eye anyway?” Lance asked, leaning in so his chin was practically resting on Keith’s shoulder. He could feel Lance’s soft, alcohol-tinted breath on his neck. 

“S’fine.”

“Can I touch it?” he asked, and Keith shrugged just as the roaring sound of the train came darting through the tunnel. It whisked past them and turned the wall into a blur until it slowed to a halt. The doors opened and Lance hurriedly dragged Keith in with him. They sat side by side, Lance holding tightly onto Keith’s arm. Keith held onto the wrapped-up sandwich on his lap. 

Keith jumped at the touch of Lance’s hand draping over the left side of his face. Lance’s gloves tickled, like they were made of short-cut fur. He laughed a little, turning to Lance as he covered Keith’s eye with his hand. “Does that hurt?”

It did, but Keith wasn’t going to admit it. “No. I don’t mind that.”

It started to dawn on Keith that he just spent a few hours out at a bar and wandering the streets with Lance. He jolted for a second, hand going to the pocket of his jacket. “Shit—I forgot to text Pidge. Hang on,” he said. Lance hummed against his ear, and they both watched as Keith unlocked his phone, opened the conversation with Pidge, before his phone sputtered and died.

“Oh shit—that sucks. I heard the cold drains batteries,” Lance murmured.

“Yeah, it always does that,” he sighed.

A stop or two later, Lance said they were nearing his stop. His head was on Keith’s shoulder when he asked, “Do you think you could walk me to my apartment? I’m scared of the bad people.”

“Okay.”

Keith got off at Lance’s stop. He felt less tipsy by the time they walked a block and turned into his street. It was the sort of street that was comprised of brightly painted fronts all mismatched together with reds and oranges and dusty blues. The front of the buildings were all layered with fire escape stairways, and the one Lance led them to had bricks painted a burnt orange color and a fire escape painted green. 

Lance swayed in front of it, pointing to the closed shop underneath the escape. “This store is really cool. I didn’t know what manga was until Hunk and I moved here. Sometimes we just wander around. They’re really cheap, too—like, you can get five for five dollars sometimes. It’s really reasonable.”

“That’s pretty cool, as long as it isn’t the trash kind,” Keith said, hands in his pockets. Lance agreed, spinning back over to Keith and pressing into his side. He threw his arms around Keith, and they stood there for a while, swaying in front of Lance’s apartment building.

“Could you come up with me? I’m scared of the dark and Hunk’s probably sleeping. And you could probably charge your phone.”

Keith agreed before the excited rush hit him. Lance was inviting him into his apartment. _Holy shit holy shit holy shit_ —

Some time in the middle of their elevator ride, Lance’s lips were on his neck, hands pulling down the collar of Keith’s jacket. Keith pulled his arms around Lance’s waist, his conscience saying to push him off—but logic said that neither of them were likely terribly drunk. And he _liked_ it, and Lance must have been doing that for a _reason_ …

So Keith let it slide up until the point where Lance brought his lips over his bruised jaw. He groaned involuntarily, mostly out of pain but he couldn’t deny the fact that he was totally turned on. “Does that hurt?” Lance whispered.

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Keith laughed, pushing in and taking Lance’s mouth with force. 

They stumbled out of the elevator, unzipping their coats and tearing off the hat on Lance’s head. Keith laid openmouthed kisses across the back of Lance’s neck as he fumbled with his apartment keys. He shushed Keith, giggling, and snatched his hat back. 

They snuck into Lance’s apartment and locked the door behind them. Keith didn’t even pay attention to where they were going—it was dark inside, and Lance navigated them through some open area to a door on the other side of the apartment. The second they were through the door, Lance shed his coat and threw it, along with Keith’s. Keith’s back hit the door and Lance’s focused hands untucked his shirt and unzipped his jeans.

Keith opened his lips against Lance’s. He could tell Lance had a practiced sense about him, but even still that didn’t cover the fact that they were both unfamiliar with one another. Their needy breaths were sharp and completely out of it. They didn’t fit together as well as Keith had hoped, but that all changed the second he tipped Lance back onto the bed. They fell horizontal on it, Keith holding himself up on his hands and ducking down to the collar of Lance’s work shirt. 

He hastily unbuttoned each of those small, black beads and layered kisses over Lance's exposed skin along the way. Lance arched against him, hands in Keith’s unwashed hair and as Keith skimmed over his stomach, he panted hard. 

They gradually familiarized one another with their desperation, and Keith couldn’t believe how much he was able to indulge himself in this guy he met not even two weeks ago. He almost felt guilty for it. Afterwards, when Lance curled into him and fell asleep across his chest, he waited for _something_ to happen that said this was never all right. Keith wasn’t allowed to do this. Keith didn’t deserve a single chance as perfect as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ^^ [Keith heard you my dude.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KiannaCat/pseuds/KiannaCat)


	6. Excuses Of A Drama Queen

That chance came in the morning, when reality hit.

It didn’t come at first. He woke up groggy but unbelievably peaceful. He didn’t even care that he was in a strange, unfamiliar room because he was with someone familiar, someone perfect. Keith blinked against the sunlight streaming in from behind, and highlighting the wall across from them. He could see the crusty door of Lance’s room—everything was white, down to the wood of the doorframe to the _hinges_. The _hinges_ were painted white, even on the closet door. 

He stayed still and looked overhead. Last night—or, more accurately, a few hours ago—Keith recalled seeing those glowing stars that were now just translucent green. They were studded all across the ceiling, which was pretty high to begin with. He wondered if Hunk helped out with that—Hunk was definitely taller than both of them. He could probably reach the ceiling better than Lance.

His fingers brushed over Lance’s cold skin. Keith could feel the goosebumps on his golden skin, so he gently reached down and tugged the comforter a bit higher. He barely got it an inch before Lance moved against his chest, brows tensing as he blinked, bleary-eyed. Lance’s hand flattened out on Keith’s side before he pushed up and stared at Keith for a second.

They stared at one another for a solid twenty seconds before Lance glanced down and then over the blankets to the wall. “I forgot to close the curtains…” he whispered.

Keith chuckled. Lance woke up after clearly having sex with a “stranger”, and the first thing he said was something about the curtains. “You want me to close them so you can go back to sleep?”

“No, stay put,” he chastised, and rolled off Keith and onto the ground. He pushed himself to his feet, and Keith didn’t even bother turning away to give him privacy. Lance was still blatantly nude, but quickly covered it up with a pair of boy shorts before shuffling over to the window on the left side of his bed. He tugged the curtain closed, leaving only a sliver of sunlight in the room. He left it like that.

He fumbled with something behind the nightstand. Keith sat up a little when he realized it was a phone charger. “It’s, um… I think it’s in my coat pocket,” he said, pointing across the room near their somewhat organized mess.

Lance rifled through their clothes and found it, and also Keith’s boxers. He tossed them to the bed, and Keith managed to catch them both with a little effort. He shimmied into his underwear before Lance collapsed beside him again, face-first against the pillow. Keith reached over him and plugged in his phone. 

While he waited for it to charge, he nestled down beside Lance and shivered a little when Lance’s cold arm went around his waist. “I hope you… don’t mind what happened last night,” Lance said, nudging his chin onto Keith’s arm. 

“I don’t mind. It was fun. I had fun.”

Lance smiled, hiding his hot cheeks against Keith’s shoulder now. After a moment he said, jokingly, “I hope you realize that your black eye _totally_ gave you pity points.”

Keith laughed, laying his arm over his eyes. Lance giggled, squeezing Keith around the torso and slyly pushing his leg over and between Keith’s. “Would it be wrong for me to assume that this… isn’t just a one-time thing?” Lance asked.

“It’s whatever you want,” Keith said slowly, leaning his head towards Lance’s. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome. But I’ll lay off if this isn’t what you want.”

Lance was quiet for a moment, fingers rubbing softly over Keith’s bare skin. 

Keith’s phone started buzzing like mad on the nightstand. 

After a second of letting it pass, Keith’s heart stopped. He lunged for it, flying straight over Lance and snatching it off the cord. His heartbeat picked up, rapid and horrified by the number of missed calls, texts, alerts from Pidge and Shiro.

It was nearly eleven.

He had training first thing in the morning.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, throwing the blankets off. He jumped from the bed, tripping and staggering towards his things. His thumb frantically flew across his phone screen and he wedged it between his shoulder and ear the second Pidge picked up. “I swear I’m not dead—”

“ _YOU UTTER PIECE OF SHIT I skipped classes because of you I’ve been calling literally_ everyone _. I even called your mom did you get kidnapped or something?_ ” Pidge shrieked into the phone. Keith winced, jumping and heaving up the pants of his legs. 

“You shouldn’t have skipped classes,” Keith groaned, standing up and shifting his weight onto his left leg and zipped up his pants. Lance was sitting up in the bed, staring while Keith fumble around like a maniac. “I had a few drinks last night and I didn’t want to bother you or anything—”

“ _Then where the hell are you?_ ” she seethed. “ _I’m coming to get you. I don’t even care if the cab driver charges me an arm and a leg._ ”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Keith hissed, stammering before groaning and chucking the phone on the bed. He yanked his tank top on and accepted the phone when Lance handed it back. “I’m going to work now. Don’t even worry about me. Don’t you have a class at two anyway?”

“ _Yes, but I’m picking you up. You need supervision._ ”

“I’m hanging up. You don’t even know where I work so _bye_. Have fun in class,” he said, pulling his phone down the second she shouted, “ _FUCK YOU!_ ”

“Jesus, that was Pidge?” Lance murmured as Keith tapped his missed call from Shiro. He tweaked his eyebrow at Lance and turned away, fetching his jacket.

He waited for all of the possible rings to pass before he was directed to Shiro’s voicemail. He seethed, lips pulled back as he swore, “Fuck you too,” before calling Shiro back again.

Lance got up and helped Keith into his jacket just as the line flickered and Shiro said, “I don’t work with pissy athletes. Quit being a drama queen and get over here.”

Keith sighed and muttered, “I’m not a drama queen and I didn’t miss on purpose. My phone died and—”

“Tell your excuses to the ring. You’re on in twenty minutes or else I’ll pull your name from the tournament roster.” The line went dead.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith hissed. “I gotta go. Sorry about this.”

“Geez, you can’t even drop off the face of the Earth for a night and your roommate explodes,” he commented, and Keith laughed hollowly. 

Lance pulled open the door and let Keith out first. He stuffed Pidge’s half of the sandwich into his pocket and tied his hair back, only to hesitate, wide-eyed, staring at Hunk staring at him from where he was lounging on the couch. Lance squeaked and shoved Keith forward, hissing, “ _Go, go, go, go—_ ”

“Hold on! Wait a minute, what’s going on—?” Hunk shouted, swinging his feet onto the ground and jumping after them. Lance herded Keith to the door and promptly flipped Hunk off before slamming the front door shut behind them.

They could both hear Hunk shouting, “ _Is that Keith?!_ ” from the other side of the door.

Lance pressed his back to the door, both hands on the handle. In the orangey light of Lance’s apartment hallway, Keith could see spots of purple over Lance’s neck and collarbone—all evidence of a night Keith hoped he would never forget. He wished he had a picture somewhere on his crappy phone to remember how Lance’s skin reacted to Keith’s teeth and lips.

“Are you working tonight?” Keith said, breathless after getting a once-over of Lance like this.

Lance relaxed a little and shook his head. “Ah, no. I, um, have classes today. Wednesdays are the only days I have evening classes,” he said. “But I’ll see you later. Tell Pidge I say hi!”

Keith scuffed, heading for the elevator. “That’s a bit suggestive. She’ll know right away I spent the morning with you,” he laughed.

  


  


Keith took the train and ran the rest of the way to the gym, skidding into that orange hallway and across the gym floor to the lockers. He didn’t even have his gym bag. _Shit_. 

He spun around and searched the floor, noting the regulars, the people he practiced with, down to the swish of blonde hair bouncing to the rhythm of her jumprope. Keith ran to her, grabbing the rope the middle of her fast-paced beat. “I need shorts. You got any extra?” he demanded.

She unplugged her earbuds and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Um, yeah sure. I’ll be sure to get you something pink and _skimpy_.”

He rolled his eyes, knowing full well that Nyma didn’t bother showing her legs off at the gym. She wasn’t exactly the definition of a gym slut, considering she never even bothered to shave her legs like half the guys there. She rifled around and tossed him a pair of black shorts that he quickly tugged on. He went to the communal tub of athletic gauze and began wrapping his hands almost as soon as he heard the observation room door open.

Keith couldn’t even hide the way he flinched.

The second he glanced over at Shiro, Nyma poked him in the neck and gasped. “Holy shit— _holy shit—_ ”

“What?” he bit out, and the second he looked at Nyma he quickly slapped his hand over his neck and whispered, “ _Fuck_.” 

He had absolutely _nothing_ to cover up a goddamn hickey. So much for his dead-phone excuse. 

Shiro was on his way across the gym, and Keith turned to him, wide-eyed and guilty with a hand still covering his neck. “Where the hell have you been?” Shiro seethed, grabbing Keith by the shoulder and hauling him away from the lockers. “We don’t exactly have all year to practice your lousy footwork here. _Nyma!—_ help him warm up.”

“It’s _not_ lous—”

“Yes, sir,” Nyma blurted out, racing after them.

Keith hit the floor with pushups, sit-ups, strength training on the equipment, and interchangeably helping Nyma with her regimen. Keith didn’t even care much about the abuse Shiro was putting him through—he figured he was slacking off enough to shake off weights for a few days, but today was clearly the day he picked back up with that. He worked out straight through lunch until Shiro called him to the ring and they went through techniques, using other members of the gym as dummies for Keith to test out. He felt the strain of his muscles vanish after every toss, every kick. The force behind each one knocked the air out of his opponents. 

They worked on tricks that utilized the ring itself. This tournament would actually have one—nothing incredibly special, just the standard sort of boxing ring. Keith tested the elasticity of the rubber by throwing himself against it and tossing actual fake dummies into it. They had the weight of a full-grown man, but somehow Keith managed to fling it across the entire ring with little to no effort. Every single time he felt invisible.

At least, he felt invisible until the moment he paused for a breath and had to listen to Shiro tick off everything he did right, and everything he did wrong. Given the mood Shiro was in, it was mainly everything Keith did wrong.

Slumped against the corner post of the ring and accepted the water bottle Shiro held up to him. “At this rate you’ll be taken out in the second bracket.”

Keith’s lips popped off the lid as he said, “You’re just saying that because you’re pissed at me.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes at Keith and didn’t disagree with him. Keith scoffed and turned away, rolling his shoulders back before lifting the bottle to his lips again. He looked to the clock. Nearing two o’ clock. “I need to get going. I work at Allura’s soon.”

“Not until you get your straights right. They’re looking sloppy.”

“That’s because I’m _tired_. C’mon, Shiro…” Keith groaned. Shiro raised his sharp eyebrows at him, daring him to argue. Keith rolled his head back and said, “Look, I don’t know why we’re focusing on jabs and straights when we both know I’m more successful with hooks and uppercuts. I may look like I don’t have power, but that doesn’t mean I have to fight like that.”

“It’s to your advantage that the later on you get in the tournament, the less your opponents know about you. Keep that power under the radar—it’s the reason Ulaz’s thug beat you up.”

“I think it was a little more than that,” Keith muttered, hiding it around the mouth of the bottle. “Whatever.” He tossed the bottle at Shiro and turned back to his opponent. Shiro called them forward, and blew the whistle to start the practice match. 

After Shiro finally let him out of the gym, Keith jogged to his apartment and hurried up the steps that carried him above the antique shop. He unlocked the door, and sprinted up to his floor where he instantly realized that the heat wasn’t working like it should. He shivered a little as he entered the apartment and hurried to his room. There, he found a note from Pidge on his bedroom door saying that she went to class and wouldn’t be back until late. He set it aside and hurriedly shed his clothes and took a cold shower. Immediately after, he wrote a note to Pidge, stuck it on the cracked plaster next to her door, and was out the front door.

So much for a relaxing day spent in bed with Lance.

  


  


That evening Keith came back to the apartment exhausted and somehow still functioning. He shuffled through the front door and slammed it behind him, rattling the nonexistent picture frames on the wall. He saw the blue glow from Pidge’s laptop shift, and she peered around the edge of the living room archway. She studied him as he lazily kicked off his boots and fumbled into the living room.

Keith collapsed face-first on the ground, aching from head to toe. His heels felt like they were comprised of nothing more than metal posts.

“You okay there?” Pidge asked. He groaned in response as he stuffed his hand into his pocket and held out two halves of a sandwich.

“One of them is from yesterday. Eat,” he ordered, tossing it at the couch. She grabbed them and unwrapped the older one, munching into it with a relieved and oddly sensual groan.

Her toes curled up onto the couch. “ _God_ , who did you say makes these sandwiches?”

“Coran,” he muttered into the wood. 

“Coran sure knows how to make a girl happy. So what happened to your eye?”

“Got mugged on the way to work yesterday. It all worked out. I got a drink with a coworker—s’why I forgot to text you,” he mumbled, sitting up a little and shedding his coat. He rubbed a hand against his bruised jaw. 

Pidge swallowed down a large bite and licked her teeth before shaking the sandwich at him, “You got a drink with that waiter guy we met at the university. What’s his name again?”

Keith moaned into his hands as he said, “You remember his name. Stop acting like you don’t have perfect memory.”

“Okay fine. I was just being courteous by asking. So I’m guessing you cleared things up about us being in a relationship,” she said, smirking deviously. Keith glared at her. “It worked, didn’t it! He got you all jealous so I just returned the favor.”

“Yes, but he did that unintentionally. I don’t think he meant it as, like, a tactic to get me to like him more,” Keith said, flushing the longer they talked about it. It felt like he was slowly boiling over it, skin hot the instant he remembered the events of last night in perfect clarity. He was thankful he had a memory nearly as good as Pidge.

“I want to meet him,” she said. “Are you gonna bring him over?”

“What? No. I wouldn’t put you through that,” Keith said quickly, shaking his head. Even when he and his ex were together, they rarely spent time here together. Pidge wasn’t into PDA, even if they weren’t technically in public. Affection made her nauseous, and he couldn’t imagine what sort of tantrum she’d go through if last night had happened _here_ instead of Lance’s apartment. The walls here weren’t the thickest.

Pidge frowned, slumping over her laptop. “Fine then, I want to go out with you guys. I still have that fake ID—”

“No—No way. We aren’t… we aren’t _dating_ yet. I think it’d be weird.”

“Then tell him to bring his buddy Hunk. We could make a day of it! Just guys bein’ dudes, hanging out. We could go to Midtown, walk around for a bit… hang out at a coffee shop…” she suggested, swinging her knees to and fro and donning that puppy-dog face that Keith tried not to fall for. Usually he was so good at it, but now it was like every time someone pouted at him like that—whether it be Lance or Pidge—he just crumbled.

“ _Fine_. I’ll ask him next time we work together,” he suggested. She yelped in excitement, fists in the air.

That night Pidge finished her homework early and urged Keith to watch a movie with her. He collapsed onto the couch with her, and promptly fell asleep ten minutes into the film. He woke up some time in the middle of the night to a car horn out on the street, and headlights filtering over the apartment buildings outside the window. He glance down at Pidge, who was asleep against his side, laptop forgotten and open on her lap. Cautiously, he reached over and shut it. It clicked closed, and she shifted so her cheek was up against his shoulder. 

Keith set her laptop aside and adjusted himself so Pidge fell against his arm. He slipped his other arm beneath her knees and picked her up off the couch. She groaned and mumbled something, but he just shushed her and took her to her room. Her walls were filled with random, artsy things from the school and her more artistic friends there. The comforter on her bed was tossed up and kicked about, so it wasn’t all that difficult settling her under them, and tugging them over her shoulders. She curled into the blankets and thanked him. 

He shut her blinds and left to get ready for bed. 

All through brushing his teeth, flossing, washing his face, Keith couldn’t stop staring at the hickey Lance left behind. He dragged a finger over it, tilting his chin away from it. He brushed over his bruised jaw and his semi-swollen eye. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night, and it made him smile uncontrollably. It was absolutely perfect, if not messy, unpracticed, and ridiculous. It was because of all these things that made it perfect. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lance’s focused hands, his languid hips…

He couldn’t.

Keith dove into his bed and collapsed, trying to put it out of his mind for the minute that it would take to fall asleep. He was so exhausted, that it took probably a second of not thinking about Lance to put him under. 

  


  


“Your eye looks better,” Coran commented a few days from then. It was Friday. 

Keith scoffed and said, “Thanks. It doesn’t take too long for the yellow to fade.” 

“Huh, well… at least you didn’t die. There’s always that. Did I tell you that in my younger years I had a tendency to get into bar fights?” he said, grinning from the other side of the counter. He flexed his biceps and said, “I would drink like the dickens and get thrown out of bars when I’d try and pick up another man’s girl.”

“Did you ever win a fight?”

“Yes, but the girlies rarely went for the winners of the fight,” Coran told him, shaking a knife at him before cutting slim lines down the rectangle of dough in front of him. “Just goes to show that not every fight is worth winning. Unless you consider gettin’ the girl worth winning.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t really care about getting the girl,” he confessed, and Coran laughed and shouted that it was a figure of speech. “Yeah, a _sexist_ figure of speech. Whoever gets the Homo sapien wins.”

Coran chortled, bright red mustache curling. “Good Heavens, that sounds like we’re swapping, oh, I dunno… We’re swapping candy bars.”

“A candy bar called a Homo sapien?” Keith exclaimed, laughing hard as he pieced together bits of macaroons. He was getting good at spiraling the frosting into the shape of roses before smushing it with the top piece. “That’s a candy bar I’d invest money on.”

“What candy bar are we talking about?” Lance said as he bumped the kitchen door open with his hip. He came in with his arms full of dirty dishes, and deposited them into the sink. “Mars Bars?”

“No. We were just talking about how the loser of the bar fight ‘gets the girl’, so to speak—” Coran started, only to be interrupted by, “Pity points! See, told you that’s a thing!” Lance grinned, delighted that he was right.

Keith glanced over the rack of cooking equipment and rolled his eyes before returning to the task of pressing two parts of a macaroon together. Coran continued, “But _here’s the thing_ —according to Keith, it’s sexist to say ‘gets the girl’, so the phrase is now ‘gets the Homo sapien’, which sounds like a candy bar.”

“And we’d all call them Homos for short. I like it,” Lance said. Keith practically choked from the other side of the counter, and promptly brushed it off as a cough into his arm. 

“If you tell Hunk about this, he could make it possible,” Coran said.

“And if you were full and someone asked if you wanted a Homo sapien, you could just say ‘No Homo’,” Keith said. Lance gasped and held both hands up to high-five Coran, who was too busy laughing and brushing away tears to comply. Lance hurried over to Keith, hands up, so Keith set down his supplies and high-fived him. The instant they did, Lance linked his fingers around Keith’s and said, “I’m _so_ telling Hunk about this. Don’t be surprised if it becomes a thing. Making homemade granola bars and candy bars is, like, his thing.”

“Seriously? I never would have guessed,” Keith said, entirely genuine about that. He figured Hunk was part of Allura’s culinary program, but he never really considered _granola bars_ to be a part of culinary art. 

Lance helped Keith transport the fresh macaroons into the refrigerator where they would sit until the following morning. Keith felt confident in that kitchen, now that he was more in tune with Coran’s style of cooking. They worked seamlessly together during the rush, and at one point Lance came back with “compliments for the chef” which included a random but generous ten dollar tip for a goddamn omelette done well by Keith.

Apparently he was the new master of breakfast goods in the evening.

That evening Lance made Keith another drink and they sat together at a booth with Allura and Coran after having cleaned up the front and back. Keith went for something more adventurous on the menu—Coran’s Alfredo with homemade sauce. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud. Why did everything at The Quilted Lion taste like pure bliss? And topped with the mocha Lance made him—he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought about getting a job at a café earlier if it meant he got to eat this much every day.

All four of them left together out the back, and Keith walked with Lance towards his station stop. Keith had a capped bowl of leftover Alfredo for Pidge, which got them on the topic of her. “She has a brother who goes to an expensive school around here.”

“Why didn’t she go there? If she has a sibling there?” Lance asked.

“They didn’t support a magic program. Matt—her brother—never learned how to use magic, and she wanted a place that catered to both magic and engineering,” he explained, and Lance hummed in realization. Apparently engineering seemed to make more sense to him then. “But… yeah, she really likes being in university. She works so hard with school and stuff she barely makes time for anything else. Priorities, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestured to the bowl and said, “Like eating. She doesn’t eat enough. Before I started working at The Quilted Lion I’d mostly cook for her so she could eat. Usually it’s just a matter of reminding her. She forgets simple things sometimes. Like self-care, that kind of stuff.”

Lance murmured something incoherently. They lapsed into silence for the moment it took Lance to talk again. “What if Hunk and I brought some of our stuff from class down to Pidge? We’re making things all the time,” he suggested.

Keith laughed, shaking his head until he looked at Lance and realized he was being completely serious. “Really? You’d _really_ want to do that?”

“Well, why not? Who else is gonna eat it anyway? I mean, we sometimes give our shit to other classmates but… I dunno. I want to get to know Pidge I guess. So I wouldn’t mind making stuff for her,” he confessed, shrugging as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. Keith stared at him for a moment longer before turning away, a light smile on his lips.

“That would actually be… really awesome. And just so you know, she really wants to meet you too. _Officially_ meet, I guess, since that one time at the university doesn’t really count,” he said, and Lance was already gasping before he could get too far. He grabbed onto Keith’s arm, and he laughed, shaking his head. “It’s ridiculous. I mean, if you don’t want to hang out with us that’s fine but she was thinking—”

“Wouldn’t want to—? Are you insane? Of course I’d want to hang out with you guys. What’s the plan?” he demanded. 

He laid out the plan Pidge came up with, and they decided on the following morning since Hunk had off work for something else—family commitment in the early morning. So Keith stood with Lance on the station platform, recalling the time they were tipsy and kept coming up with excuses for Keith to keep tagging along with Lance to his apartment. He laughed a little to himself at the thought. This couldn’t be real. 

The train stormed in, kicking up an abandoned newspaper off to the side and sucking it under the tracks. It was barely in the tunnel before Lance shouted, “Wait! I don’t have your number—give me your phone!” Frantically, Keith took out his phone and unlocked it. 

NYC subways were fast paced and ruthless. You could be halfway in and the door would close on your leg. So when Lance frantically typed in his number, the train doors opened. Keith practically shoved him into the train after a few seconds and took his phone back. “I’ll text you, all right?” he promised. Lance nodded fast, grinning ear to ear. As the train picked up again, Keith followed it to the stairs, watching as Lance took his seat and waved to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXCITING NEWS: I'm an official author on [Radish Fiction](https://www.radishfiction.com/) now! I'm revamping some of my older works to publish on there and I'm hoping that after _Blades Are For Baking_ is done, I'll be able to turn it into an original fic since that's how I've been writing everything fanfic related (changing the names and character descriptions, and boOM new original novel by yours truly). Since I haven't posted anything yet, it's just sorta sitting there. BUT ONCE I DO START POSTING I'll give you guys the link. It's a lovely app, and there are so many excellent writers on there I am just so flattered my GOODNESS. What a time. What a time.
> 
> If you can't tell I started drinking coffee recently. I feel like my fingers are flying faster than normal (and if that sentence were taken literally, we would have some real problems with fingers flying). 
> 
> ALSO YOU KUMQUATS ARE SO GORGEOUS Every time I read your comments I look like [this](https://youtu.be/7nUDA-4vD9g?t=45s).


	7. Midtown

Keith forced Pidge to wear her hat the following day. He was exhausted and not having any of her shit—she’d wear the hat or she wasn’t coming. She pouted at him from underneath the knitted rim that stopped just above her massive, oversized glasses. That was one of the few pouts Keith could manage to deal with.

The previous night Keith spent his walk home arguing with Shiro about taking the morning off. He’d train after work or something. Of course, midway through Shiro saying, “You can’t expect me to keep putting up with your—” his phone checked out because of the cold. He woke up to five annoyed missed calls and one irritated voicemail finishing the sentence.

Keith groaned as Pidge whined about the hat obstructing her vision. “I don’t think that’s the hat—I think it’s your hair,” he told her.

“But either way it flattened my hair over my eyes.”

Keith yanked the hat off her head. They were waiting for the walk sign when Keith shoved his hand over her bangs, flattening them back before stuffing the knitted hat over them. She blinked at him, looking disoriented before grinning and saying, “Thanks for fixing that.”

“Yeah, _no problem_ ,” he muttered.

They crossed the street and ducked down into the station for the blue line. They scanned their cards and waited on the platform by one of those air vents that acted like a heater. Pidge was looking at one of the message boards, and Keith promptly ignored it because he could see his fake name on one of the posters for the tournament.

The train swept in and with it came the pressure of air that tugged on their clothes and hair. Pidge grabbed Keith eagerly by the hand and dragged him through the nearest door, and down onto two open seats. They sat listening to the creak of the train on the tracks, and the clamor of rail cars turning around a bend.

They emerged on Times Square, stepping out of the bright red, brick hall and up onto the streets. Every time without fail, Pidge gasped at it all and the massive mega-screens. Keith looked up and saw an endless spread of glowing advertisements.

“Come on,” Keith said, holding her by the arm as they headed towards the open triangle in the middle. Keith always wondered why Times Square was deemed a “square” in the first place when really, it was shaped like a massive triangle.

With it nearing Christmas, the Square was packed and decorated with lights and garland. The store fronts were expensively ornamented, and there were one too many Santa Claus’ in one place. They avoided navigating the throngs of people and went to their meeting spot: the stadium seating near the back of Times Square. Pidge ran to the top of the bleachers, and Keith followed after her since that seemed to be the spot she wanted the most.

They people-watched until ten, when they began to actually search for Hunk and Lance. Almost exactly two minutes after ten, they saw Lance weaving between people with Hunk in tow. Keith stood up and hurried down the steps, Pidge chasing after him. Before Keith could even greet them, Pidge leapt forward and threw herself at Lance, screaming, “ _Hello!_ ”

Lance caught her, laughing and throwing his arms around her shoulders. “Hello again! You’re Pidge!”

“I am, and you’re Lance. Hunk!” she shouted, flinging herself at him next. He caught her, but of course it was after he got the air knocked out of him. He let out a breathy laugh and hugged her back. “I am Pidge,” she said, voice muffled by Hunk’s heavy, poofy jacket.

“Good seeing you again, small one,” he said, patting his hand on her hat. 

Pidge was approximately half the height of Hunk, and her only advantage was that the hat added an extra few inches to the top of her head. Either way, the fact that she was so small seemed to give her more power. Usually height like that played inversely on power, but then again, everything about Pidge was an anomaly. Her ability to use magic was proof of that.

Keith felt less dead the longer he spent with Hunk and Lance. They decided to move out of the crowded area and head west to the outskirts of Midtown. Hunk was ecstatic to hear about everything Pidge-related, so she rambled for the majority of the walk about her classes, her family, her brother in particular. Matt Gunderson was her favorite subject aside from all things related to school. 

“We used to build robots together. Nothing super fancy at first—I think our first robot was one of those floor-cleaners. I believe it’s called a Roomba, and we made a pinwheel of knives using a handheld fan that Matt rigged up. We pranked my mom, but it ended with a trip to the hospital,” she explained.

“That’s awful,” Hunk gasped.

“I dunno, it was kinda funny.”

“Hunk’s horrible with blood though, so I don’t know about that,” Keith commented, grinning when Hunk didn’t even bother denying it. Lance scoffed from beside Keith, his arm now secured around Keith’s waist. Pidge led the march across the street, among the other strangers crossing. They delved through the middle of the pack, regrouping on the sidewalk as Keith added, “The day I came in with a black eye, Hunk threw up, like, five times.”

“It was more like two, thank you very much,” he argued, combing a hand through his hair with an air of conviction about him.

Pidge yelped, pointing across the street. Keith bolted out to grab her by the hood of her jacket before she could run for it. “We’ll get there eventually, calm down,” he said.

“What is it?” Hunk asked, squinting to see. 

“The coffee shop! I have a coffee shop to show you guys!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms up. 

Keith could tell Lance was looking at him for an explanation of some kind, but he had nothing. He could never explain the things Pidge did, or the places she chose to go to. By the time they walked across the street and hurried to the revolving door, Keith was already terrified of the punk rock displays in the front window. This didn’t exactly seem like Hunk _or_ Lance’s cup of tea.

There were old records posted on all the walls in checkered formation, creating a patchwork across walls around band memorabilia and signed t-shirts. There was a tapestry hung over the counter and it was spotted with iron-on patches of skulls. The rustic, yet somehow eclectic add ons to the front counter were entirely up Keith’s ally.

Now he knew what Pidge meant by a 90s rock café.

Hunk made a noise that was supposed to sound appreciative, but ended up kind of scared-sounding. The girl at the counter had mermaid hair—teal with sky blue tips, and half of it shaved. She eyed Hunk before her gaze fell down to slightly-below eye level.

“Pidge, honey! How are you?” she chirped, leaning onto the counter as Pidge hopped up, excited. “Nice hat, I like it.”

“Thanks, ‘cause _someone_ forced me to wear it,” she said, glaring over at Keith. He shrugged, tossing an arm over Lance’s shoulders. “That’s Keith, my roommate.”

She grinned at Keith, sharp canines showing against her glinting lip ring. “Ooh, nice, nice. Heard good things about you, Keith.”

“Seriously? How often do you come here?” Keith laughed, looking at Pidge. She shrugged before turning back to the barista at the counter. They stepped up closer and he was able to read her name—if only slightly. He was sure it said _FLERONA_.

“Oh, Pidge comes by every now and then,” Flerona said with a wave of her hand, fingernails black and all.

“Flerona makes the best café americanos though. Tell them about the place. I brought them here for a reason, don’t disappoint me now,” she said, gesturing for them to step up to the counter. Lance hopped up onto one of the counter barstools, and Hunk claimed the other, preparing for the entertainment. 

Flerona hummed thoughtfully before snapping her fingers and stepping away from the register. “Well, I guess what makes it so great is the fact that we do a lot of our brews by _awen_ —it’s a sort of magic that shows itself physically. It’s kind of ancient stuff—but it’s just an extension of the magical spirit, and also the reason why you don’t see a whole lot of espresso machines around. It takes a lot of training but it’s really worth it. We’ve got the best on our team here.

“What’ll it be, though? Any recommendations, preferably something with a shot so I can show you what I mean,” she said, leaning on the counter.

“I’ll go for a vanilla dirty chai with a double shot please,” Pidge said, beaming at Flerona to the point where her cheeks pressed up against the rim of her glasses. 

Flerona snapped her fingers and set to work. Keith stood beside Lance, eyes skimming across the other side of the counter. She was right about one thing: the place was pretty bare of anything except storage for supplies. She had a similar method to what Allura did with her drinks, but everything came from the machines there—Flerona pulled the raw materials from the boxes and cartons.

The liquid coasted along a sparked path left behind in the air, her hands gliding through the air, fingers languid yet uniform in their strict structure. She curved them, sliding them over and under an invisible wheel that condensed the darkened coffee together. She broke the form, the espresso circulating until she drew her hands together through the sparking ring, and cut through it. A flat surface hissed into existence, the bluish glow highlighting their enthralled faces.

It was comprised of intricate lines, patterns, and reminded Keith of alchemic circles. When the liquid dropped through it, it disappeared. Keith whistled low under his breath, glancing over at Lance and Hunk who looked completely in awe. Lance turned to him, mouth ajar, and gasped in shock when the sound of liquid pouring came into the mug in front of Pidge. Lance grabbed for Hunk’s arm, whose worried moans from earlier turned to shrill little screams.

“This is incredible! How did you learn this?” he demanded as the barista twisted her hands and collapsed the _awen_ circle. It fizzled out and dissolved into blue ember sparks.

“We all go through training. It’s like… this three-week long class? And if ya don’t pass you can’t be a barista at the shop. It’s kind of a requirement considering our lack of machines. But since we don’t have to pay for the machines, the quality of the drinks are better. We’re able to purchase more expensive and exotic goods. Like, all of our coffee beans come from across the globe.”

“That’s so cool. I’ll take whatever Pidge is having,” Lance said. “Minus the extra shot. Just one shot of espresso.”

“You got it,” Flerona said, steam rising from Pidge’s mug. It fogged up her glasses. “Enjoy, hun. Thanks for stopping by!”

Pidge slipped into the barstool beside Hunk and let him test it. Hunk perked up instantly, as if he wasn’t already thrilled by the idea of visiting a magical coffee shop. A moment passed before Hunk was even able to talk. 

“That is… so damn good. I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said. 

Flerona laughed and Pidge groaned. “Get something else. Try her lattes! They’re pretty good, and then add your favorite flavor. What specials do you have?” So they talked with Flerona about Hunk’s options as she made Lance’s drink. Keith realized it was a lot like those pyro-shows at fairs and carnivals. In the transportation from Flerona’s _awen_ circle to Lance’s mug, it created the same effect as any machine she could have used to produce the flavor and the heat. The circles and patterns were just a crazy blue fire effect. 

Keith and Hunk got two of their specials, and Keith regretted coughing up nearly seven dollars for a specialty drink, but took back his regrets the second Flerona slid his drink across the table and he got his first whiff of it.

He had a theory that magic was addictive. It had flavors, like Allura’s hazelnut and Lance’s spearmint. He smelled Flerona’s drink and it reminded him of… auburn and autumn afternoons. He tasted it and it… had a subtle tinge of cinnamon—but she attempted to cover it up with the other spices and ingredients that went into the natural flavor. Either way, a spark of cinnamon in her drinks only seemed to enhance the flavor more. Any form of magic made a drink taste better.

Keith lapped up the foam and tipped the mug back a little, watching Lance watch him, and Hunk and Pidge behind them sharing notes on the drinks. Lance’s bright blue eyes studied the way Keith’s lit up upon his first sip. The liquid felt warm against his tongue, and seemed to sooth away any feeling on the inside of his mouth. It was… numbing, and addictive in the sense that as soon as the flavor faded, the pain from the still-healing cut on the inside of his cheek returned. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered, laughing when Lance leaned in to take a sip of his drink. They swapped beverages, and then traded with Hunk and Pidge, and by the time Keith’s drink was done with its rounds, it was diminished to half the original serving size. 

Flerona took her spot at the counter again, brushing aside her coworker to chat with the customers that came in. Pidge chatted about all the memorabilia she knew of, and named off a few of the records. Evidently, all the music played in the shop was done so on a record player. 

“I wished you would have applied here…” Pidge confessed, leaning across the counter to look at Keith.

“I’m not good with magic,” he argued. “So I wouldn’t have been able to work here anyways.”

“Aw… I guess you’re right. But I like to dream sometimes. Maybe one day I’ll apply here and—”

“No, you’re busy enough as it is,” Keith argued, noting the fact that Lance and Hunk were looking between them curiously. “Pidge had a job a few months back, but her school schedule conflicted with the work hours. So she had to quit. And a lot of the places around here are like that—she doesn’t have enough time in her schedule to take on a regular twenty-hour job.”

“Stop speaking on my behalf. I could totally work a twenty-hour job! If I wanted!” she whined.

“Sleep is always important though,” Hunk murmured.

“And food,” Lance added, nudging Keith in the side. “Speaking of… Hunk and I are in a culinary class. If you ever want something in the middle of the day, we could probably get it for you. Most of Hunk’s classes are in the evening.”

“And most of Lance’s classes are in the morning,” Hunk added. “So we could drop into the engineering building and, you know, give you a fancy pastry of some kind. It’s a desserts and pastry class, so nothing super nutritious.”

Pidge gawked at them, and laughed in a way that said she didn’t believe them. “I mean… if you _want_ to, but you don’t _have_ to. I’m sure you guys like eating your own creations.”

“It gets dull after a while,” Hunk admitted. “And then I’m a chef at The Quilted Lion so I’m just making food all the time. Lance is a bottomless pit though, so you might have to compete with him.”

Pidge turned away, cheeks flush as she tried to hide her faint smile in her chai. Keith laughed, leaning his forearms against the counter as Lance said something about how he didn’t eat as much as Hunk was saying. “I have _some_ self-control,” he muttered.

“Very little self-control,” Keith whispered to the side, and earned a slap in the leg for it. 

They spent about an hour there, chatting up the baristas and talking about their classes. Keith’s eyes strayed around the room, and he wandered over to some of the displays and news boards across the shop. There was an area that was farther down, just a few steps down, and on the railing there were posters of concerts in the area—old and new. 

He finished his drink long ago, so he just stuffed his hands in his pockets and glared a little at a poster that was hidden behind a local band poster. On it, he could see the familiar text displaying the “big names”, like Zarkon and Knyaz, and Haggar. He lifted it a bit and noted the roster for the tournament, the date of it in bold white text. January sixth. He’d have to ask off for it.

“Hey Keith,” Pidge called down from the railing. He let the band poster fall over the tournament. “We’re heading out. Ready?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he said, hurrying to the steps and not looking back at the roster.

They left out the old revolving door and wandered further into Hell’s Kitchen. Hunk claimed there was a bookstore somewhere nearby—or perhaps that was east of Times Square? He couldn’t be certain, but it was worth a look. So they crossed the street and turned a corner, passing a sub station and more parked cars than Keith could count. Moving to New York meant that he could handle just about any distance of walking, and the same went for Lance, Hunk, and Pidge. They could walk forever, so that was what they did so long as the conversation kept up.

They were in the middle of discussing something bizarre about aliens when they passed a restaurant’s alleyway. There were people smoking over there, and one of them shouted out, “Hey, is that Kogane?”

 _Shit_.

There were three of them, stepping out of the alleyway. Keith kept walking with everyone else, but someone grabbed his arm and said, “Shit, it is you. Tattled on my friend, did you?” 

“No, no, you’ve got the wrong guy,” Lance said quickly, splitting between them.

Keith was fast at putting it together, and he wanted to scream for it. He wished he didn’t have to run into a competitor like Ulaz _in front of Pidge_ and _Lance_ and _Hunk_. Just like that his luck went to complete shit, especially when Ulaz pushed Lance aside and jabbed a finger into Keith’s chest. “Thanks to you, he can’t fight for a few goddamn months. Your buddies broke his arm.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith said, pulling his hands from his pockets and slapping them to his sides, stepping back. “If ya wanna file a complaint, talk to the person who broke his arm. Not me.”

“It’d be easiest to just take you out now—that why I wouldn’t have to worry bout your sorry ass later,” he hissed, spitting his cigarette on the ground. Hunk squeaked from behind Keith. He pushed a hand back, shoving Pidge away the instant Ulaz cracked his knuckles together.

“Whoa! Whoa, hey! No fighting here,” Lance shouted, only to scream the second Ulaz slammed his fist towards Keith. He ducked back and dodged it, parrying to the left, fists still down.

“I’m not fighting you here,” Keith said, noting how one of Ulaz’s buddies moved to the side, preparing to grab Keith. Ulaz said something—his thick accent slurring into pure Russian before one of his thugs went for Keith. A few people screamed—people passing, watching, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge.

Keith whipped his hand out and grabbed the thug by the wrist, twisting him and holding his arm back. Ulaz lunged for him, but Keith flung the thug into him and slammed his elbow back into the gut of the guy behind him. He spun out of a possible headlock and slammed his fist up—a solid uppercut that sent the guy staggering and collapsing against the brick wall of the restaurant.

Keith rarely went up against multiple guys. He did dirty work for Shiro every now and then, and those were the only times multiple people tried to attack. Usually he was with a group of people those times, but this was different. One versus three didn’t seem like great odds, so he took Ulaz down before he could recover from the half-toss.

He went for Nyma’s legendary knockdown—where she slammed the guy’s back down with her knee and cranked his head back with her forearm. “Talk to Shiro about it before you take me on,” he hissed into Ulaz’s ear before thrusting him into the ground and getting up.

The people around him—down the sidewalk and between the parked cars—were staring and stepped back a bit when Keith eyed them, and the phones in their hands. “What are you lookin’ at?” he shouted at them, waving his hands. A few of them recoiled, lowering their phones. He saw one of Ulaz’s thugs shift, so on his way back to his friends, he shoved his foot down onto the guy’s back and held him back down.

He turned to his friends, who were frozen not far away. He gestured for them to get going, and they jogged to the nearest bend in the road and took the turn, slowing to a walk. Keith glanced behind them to assure that Ulaz wasn’t pursuing. 

“Sorry about that,” he huffed, drawing his hands through his hair. 

Pidge was in front of him and refused to turn around, even when Hunk turned to her and said, “Did you know he fought like that? I didn’t know he fought like that.”

“That didn’t look like self-defense class stuff to me,” she said, and he winced a little at her harsh undertone.

“You completely threw that one guy,” Lance murmured to the side, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “He was, like, twice your height—”

“Totally magic,” Hunk said, now falling into step with Keith and saying, “You may not have the magic touch with, like, telekinesis and _awen_ and stuff, but you’ve definitely got something. I mean, the _power behind that punch_. You completely knocked that guy out! Fair and square!”

“For someone who hates the sight of blood, sure sounds like you like to watch fights,” Keith said, voice uneven. “But I’d rather not talk about it. Pidge and I should probably head back. I need to get ready for work.”

“But I thought you were gonna _die_. I thought _I_ was gonna die. Like, what was with that guy? How’d you know him?” Hunk asked. The question rubbed Keith the wrong way and he attempted not to make a face as he turned away and shrugged, muttering, “I didn’t know him.”

They reached the station that would take them back to the East Side, and eventually over to where Lance and Hunk lived. They all seemed to resolve that whatever happened was a sore subject and it was safe to assume that it shouldn’t be brought up again. Keith flexed his right hand—the hand he used to uppercut Ulaz’s thug—and ignored how Pidge completely ignored him until after they said their goodbyes to Lance and Hunk. It was a perfectly fine outing if Keith hadn’t been there to screw it all up. He was certain this was what Pidge thought, among other things.

Other extremely, terribly, awfully explicit things that rivaled against her current anger level.

Their stop was next, and Keith drew his arm back from around Lance’s shoulders. “I’ll text you later,” he said, and Lance whined a little, pulling Keith’s arm back.

“Really? That’s it? No kiss goodbye?” he complained, and Keith’s face felt hot all at once. He couldn’t believe Lance said things so casually in public. It was ridiculous but honestly, he didn’t give one flying fuck about it.

He glimpsed over at Hunk and Pidge who sat on Lance’s other side, and he leaned over to talk quietly in Lance’s ear. “Pidge gets nauseous over PDA. And she’s already pissed at me so maybe another time,” he murmured, pulling back to see Lance’s pouty-face fade a little.

“Fine. Next time,” he agreed as everyone in the train car swayed a little under the strain of the breaks.

Keith got up, hand slipping out of Lance’s as he headed for one of the exit doors. Pidge joined him, holding on tightly to one of the metal posts. She glared ahead even after they stepped out of the subway and onto the streets. There was a department store nearby that was blaring Christmas music on their speakers, and it followed them out of the subway. They barely made it a block before Keith cracked.

He turned to her and said, “Can you stop for a second?” but she kept walking. He hurried up to her and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her back. “ _Stop_ , will you? Quit acting like a child and tell me how you really feel, huh? So yeah I ruined your entire goddamn morning with that shit, but _tell me_ what’s really bothering you about it.”

She shook off his hand and he didn’t bother holding on if she didn’t want to be held back. She glanced down the street and back to him, hissing, “I don’t care that you ruined a perfectly good time with Hunk and Lance, but don’t you care at all? Obviously you’ve been doing weird, sketchy shit the entire time I’ve lived with you and I didn’t want to know about it until one of your creepy friends attacked you in the middle of the street. You probably didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me involved, I get it, but honestly? I really care about your safety so the fact that you just got attacked and barely batted an eye at it makes me think—It makes me think that you’re _used_ to it. Like… you _fight_ with—with guys like him all the time.

“I just don’t want to see you getting hurt anymore and coming home with… bruises and shit. And the time you dislocated your rib—it _really_ freaked me out. I wanted to call you out on it then but… you never wanted to talk about it. So I wanna talk about it _now_ ,” she snapped, jabbing her finger between them.

The Christmas music on the streets was really starting to piss him off and he was annoyed that he never told _anyone_ about his street boxing. He never told anyone that _mattered_ to him. He never told Pidge.

He pushed a hand over his face and groaned into it. He combed it through his bangs, other hand lodged deep in the pocket of his winter jacket. He couldn’t stand to see Pidge’s eyes as red as they were. It was different when she was just suffering from lack of sleep, but that definitely wasn’t it. Whenever Pidge cried, he cried.

“I-I’m sorry, okay? All right? You were right, I never told you because I didn’t want you to get involved. I didn’t want you to worry about where I got our money from and… I just… It’s really important to me that you’re able to have what you need and that we’re able to stay in that… goddamn _shitty_ apartment,” he bit out, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. The moisture from his lips seemed to crystalize in the freezing air.

Pidge took in a shaky breath and said, “So what do you do? Do you even _work_ with Lance and Hunk? Are they even who they say they are?”

“ _Yes_ , yes, they are,” he breathed out irritably, scuffing his boot on the ground. “And I do work at The Quilted Lion. My… other boss wanted me to get a normal job on the side. It’s kinda… _funny_ actually—” he laughed a little, head tilted back, “—because my boss is actually _infatuated_ with the owner of The Quilted Lion. So mostly me working there is just to get on her good side. Don’t tell Lance and Hunk that.”

“No promises,” she murmured, sniffling. “Is your boss… a good person though? Like, he doesn’t treat you badly or anything?”

“No. He’s just a hardass, like most bosses,” Keith said. They fell silent, staring at one another until Pidge sniffed again so he suggested they get to the apartment before they both ended up with a cold.

On the way there, he explained to her what street boxing was, and how the matches worked. “The people who watch make bets on the fighters and the bookie divvies up the winnings afterwards, keeps track of all the bets made. Shiro, since he’s my manager and coach, gets a fifth of the winnings. So usually if I do four matches a month I scrape by with just enough for rent. If not, I do side work for him. I’ve worked being the muscle behind underground meetings and stuff. Personal guard, that sort of thing. And it’s funny because a lot of guys underestimate me so if anyone tries to break in to the building, I usually take ‘em down and get to take whatever’s on them. It’s like tip money, but it isn’t given.”

“I never would have guessed,” she confessed as they passed underneath the construction awning beside their apartment building. “I sort of… figured you dealt drugs or something. Though every time I’ve looked through your things I never found anything super sketchy…”

“You go through my things?”

“Yeah. I guess I never thought too deeply about your gym bag. I just figured you liked to work out… Though that amount of gauze is a bit unrealistic for a regular workout session. But then again I never work out, so I wouldn’t really know.”

Keith squinted at his keys before looking curiously at Pidge, who shrugged as if rifling through her roommate’s stuff wasn’t a big deal. He unlocked the door and held it open for her, adding, “I was supposed to go to training this morning but I quit on Shiro last minute. I plan on going in tonight to make up for it. We’re kind of on a tight schedule right now.”

“Why?” she said, nose wrinkling. “And don’t you get off work at, like, midnight?”

“No, that’s just when I get back from practice. The Quilted Lion closes at eight,” he explained, and she glared at him for yet another lie he fed her this entire time. He rolled his eyes with a sigh.

“Okay then. So why the tight schedule?” 

“There’s a tournament coming up. Winner gets ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand what? Boxes of hentai?” she asked, and Keith choked a little, coughing into his arm as they passed a tenant from a different floor. He covered up his face so she wouldn’t have to see how disappointed he was in her. 

“ _No_ ,” he groaned. “Ten thousand _dollars_.”

“ _HOLY—_ ” The elevator dinged before she could finish that. She jumped into him, knocking them both into the elevator. “ _Ten thousand dollars!_ You gotta win! That’s, like, enough money to get _real_ food—”

“I was thinking more like a new apartment,” he suggested, and she stepped back to look at him seriously. He smiled a little wider. “I mean, if I win the tournament I might go into professional boxing. I’m young enough for it, and Shiro used to be in the professional league so I wouldn’t have to worry about the paperwork that comes with switching managers.”

“But—wait, doesn’t he take a fifth of your winnings?”

“Yeah, but eight thousand isn’t that bad. It’s still _something_ , and it’s not including the bets Shiro curates on the side. I mean, he might just keep the winning bets and I’d get the tournament winning price,” he said, stepping out onto their floor and tugging Pidge with him. “But I was thinking we could get a place in Greenwich, since you love the architecture there so much and it’s close to your school—”

“Those apartments are, like, _thousands_ of dollars though—we’re already paying close to two grand,” she said. “How much do you expect to _make_ in the big leagues?”

Keith turned to her and pressed a finger to her lip, effectively shushing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Radish account is all worked out and you can now read _[The Immortal Chronicles](https://radish.app.link/iM1xEa6svA)_ on the app now for free! So if you're missing my high fantasy streak, you can head over there. 
> 
> You guys are so incredible and your comments just make my day, and it's so nice to hear that I'm able to make your guys' days just by writing. I don't know any of you personally, but this book is for you guys. Like, I wish I could give you guys a virtual hug.
> 
> Imma be on [Twitch](https://www.twitch.tv/girlskylark) writing for a lil while tonight because who needs to do homework when Lance and Keith are calling my name?


	8. Abandonment Issues

“Well aren’t you just floating on cloud nine,” Nyma commented, grinning as she passed Keith on her way out of the shower room. Her hair was out of the usual ponytail, now long down her back and curly from the moisture. He quirked an eyebrow at her as she rubbed a towel over her head. 

“What makes you say that?”

“Obviously because you’re so obsessed over something other than training. What gives? Did that fella confess his undying love for you or something?” she asked, leaning against the tiled opening of the shower room. 

Keith leant against the opposite side, waiting until one of the other gym members walked by before answering, “Something to that effect. Pidge knows about what I do now.”

Her eyes went wide, sly smile turning to a genuine one. “Oh yeah? How’d that go?”

“Rocky at first. But then I told her about the prize money of the tournament.”

“Money always wins over the ladies.”

Keith rolled his eyes as Nyma laughed evilly, snapping her towel at him before heading off. “I gotta get home. You know how it is—gotta beat the 1A.M. drunkard rush, ya know.”

“Says your ‘I run because I like beer’ shirt,” he called out after her, laughing when she flipped him off.

By the time Keith finished showering, the gym was starting to close up. A few of Shiro’s regular members were helping clean up, and Shiro himself was standing off to the side chatting with one of the guys. Keith navigated away from them and to the lockers, knowing full well that he was on Shiro’s to-be-yelled-at list, as if he hadn’t made his stance clear enough with the brutal training he put Keith through that day. He thought he’d seen the last of his days where his _thighs_ and _forearms_ felt like jello. Sure, it was usual to feel that around the calves and biceps but talk about a wild turn of events.

He shrugged on his coat and flicked the hood up, but it wasn’t enough to avoid Shiro spotting him from across the gym. Keith stepped back from his locker to plug his earbuds into his phone when someone slammed his locker shut and tugged his earbuds out. “Hey—!” he started, hesitating when he realized it was Shiro.

“What the hell kind of excuse do you have for me this time? I know you weren’t fucking working at Allura’s—is this tournament suddenly low priority for you?” Shiro hissed at him, leaning against the lockers and pegging Keith down with that withering glare he hated so much. “And since it didn’t have anything to do with work, I can safely say this has nothing to do with getting an extra job, so don’t even try it.”

“It’s nothing—something came up with my roommate so I—”

“Hand over the phone. It’s mine to begin with—I’m paying for it. Now hand it over,” he demanded. Keith boiled under his skin as he scowled at Shiro. They stared at each other, the tension rising in Keith’s shoulders until he ripped his earbuds out of the port and slapped his phone into Shiro’s waiting hand. He turned so his back was against the lockers, and he didn’t have to see the look on Shiro’s face when he scrolled through his past and present messages.

After a few torturous seconds, Shiro said, “This says Lance—you mean from The Quilted Lion?”

“ _Yes_. We’ve been seeing each other,” he said. “It’s _not_ that big of a deal.”

“The fact that he’s one of, what? six contacts now? That really says something to me,” he scoffed, thrusting the phone back. 

Keith stuffed it back into his jacket pocket, looking away and trying to avoid addressing the fact that his face was starting to heat up out of embarrassment. He always thought it was ridiculous how other members of the gym prioritized their significant others over training, and Keith wasn’t even officially _dating_ Lance. They were just testing the waters and already Shiro was making him feel like he was willing to sacrifice his training for Lance.

“It’s not serious. And you should know that this morning I went out with him and Pidge and was confronted by Ulaz. What’s this about you having his buddy’s arm broken? Hm? You mind telling me something about that and how _I_ had to take the metaphorical hit for it?” he countered, pinning Shiro with his sharp eyes. He waited for something like guilt to manifest in Shiro’s expression, but it just wasn’t there.

“Well, what are your thoughts on Ulaz now, then?” he asked, not entirely sounding interested.

“Wouldn’t know because the fight was over in less than five minutes. I ended up having to tell Pidge all about… _this_. I’ve got her hopes up that I’ll win the tournament. I wish I was able to practice more,” he confessed, folding his arms defensively against his chest. 

There was a pause in which one of the gym members called out to Shiro that he was turning off the overhead light. Shiro let him, so Keith unlocked his locker and grabbed his gym bag before the light went off. They walked across the empty gym together, lit by the large set of windows overlooking the street.

“Practice more then. Come in tomorrow morning. Prove to her that you _can_ win,” he suggested, stopping at the stairs. Keith strayed towards the exit, still facing Shiro. His boss shrugged and said, “It’s the best you can do for her at this point.”

  


  


“I wholeheartedly believe that Keith uses magic and he doesn't even know it,” Lance shouted the next day, in the middle of the kitchen where both Coran and Allura could hear him. Keith flinched at the idea, and wished he could shut Lance up. It seemed like the kid did whatever the hell he wanted regardless of what anyone said. It explained his inexplicably successful flirting nature when it came to Keith.

But it made sense that Coran and Allura lifted their eyebrows in disbelief. “Do you… have proof of this?” Allura asked.

“I’ve been working with Keith all December—I think I’d know if he’s been using magic,” Coran said. “Besides, there isn’t anything wrong with _not_ being able to use magic—”

Hunk was in the hallway getting ready to head out, and peeked in to say, “No, no, he’s not talking about baking or cooking magic. It’s not something he controls like we do. It’s, like… more physical and concrete. Not abstract.”

Allura hummed at Hunk’s contribution while Coran stroked his beard and said, “Where is your proof though…?”

“Keith, pick me up,” Lance demanded. 

“What? Here?” he squeaked, but wasn’t given a chance because Lance threw himself at Keith anyway. He caught Lance bridal-style with little difficulty—except for Lance’s lanky legs that had little to no form. Allura gasped and clapped, waiting for Coran’s reaction. He still looked skeptical. “Tense your legs,” Keith told Lance just seconds before propping his hand on the underside of Lance’s thigh, his other hand pressed to Lance’s upper back. 

He lifted his arms like he would when deadlifting. Clearly this wasn’t meant to be apart of the performance because Lance squeaked and Hunk actually screamed in excitement. Coran’s eyes went up with Lance’s before falling back to Keith’s face. He wasn’t shaking and there wasn’t anything odd about lifting Lance’s weight, so his expression was rather neutral.

“O-Okay, you can put me down now,” Lance cried out, so Keith dropped him and caught him before lowering his feet to the ground. The second it took for Lance to stand was spent in a roar of applause—echoing from the kitchen, to the front room where the customers were observing over the gelato counter. Keith went red at the attention.

“I would be more impressed if you benched Hunk,” Coran confessed. “But I see your point.”

“I’ve probably benched Hunk’s weight before,” he said, turning to Hunk who squeaked in alarm and said, “Oh, no, I like being on the ground. And also, I need to get going to class. I’ll see you guys later!”

He waved enthusiastically at them, but high-tailed it out of there while Allura called out, “Thanks for helping out today! You did great!”

“Thanks Allura!” Hunk shouted before the back door closed.

Keith frowned for a moment after Hunk before turning to Allura. “Wait, if you’re a professor at their university, how come you’re here all the time?”

“I just have a few morning classes. Lance was in my class his first semester and just stuck round. There are other culinary professors though for the advanced classes. I’m more of an introductory level professor,” she confessed, and Lance scoffed and waved his hand at you.

“Introductory my ass. Your class was _hard_. It’s, like, going into photography class, thinking you’ll get straight ‘A’s until the professor starts telling you that your final project is disassembling and reassembling your camera,” he said, his hand brushing the side of his face as he took on a rather traumatized look. “That class was _awful_.”

“Well, whatever the case—I don’t think I’m the one to teach you how to use your charms. It seems more like an innate, bodily function as opposed to a skill. I’m more familiar with teaching it as your usual abstract skills, like art or music,” she confessed, smiling apologetically. 

“It’s fine. I never really considered magic to be in the cards for me anyway. Even if I did learn, I’m kind of behind on that whole educational curve,” Keith confessed. “And I don’t mind being a non-magic assistant.”

“Well, now we can’t really say that either because I just realized he helps me bring up supplies from the basement all the time,” Coran said, distraught. “The entire time I thought I was getting so _old_ , not being able to lift things that I used to…”

Keith scoffed a little, folding his arms and not quite believing the outcome of this “revelation”. He appreciated the fact that Lance and Hunk were considering the idea of him having magic, but it wasn’t anything like what Keith was used to seeing around The Quilted Lion. It made him uneasy—the idea of him using magic all the time without realizing it. It just seemed like something so _obvious_ that it couldn’t possibly mask itself in muscle strength.

But apparently, it was obvious enough for people like Ulaz to notice.

“Regardless, we’re glad to have Keith on our team. And Lance, you have tables waiting. Get back to work,” Allura said, clapping her hands at him. He jumped into motion and headed for the front with Allura right behind him. 

Keith’s newly-recognized abilities seemed to grate on Coran’s nerves. He wanted consequential proof, and did so by attempting to thrust tasks on Keith that he wouldn’t normally consider— _magic_ things that Keith clearly didn’t know how to perform. He’d try to get Keith to heat up stone pans with no success; he tried to make Keith levitate objects—with no success; and he even tried to have Keith mix ingredients in the air. That just caused a huge mess and Allura barged in to put a stop to Coran’s experiments.

Overall, it just seemed to make him feel worse about the fact that he had magic that couldn’t be put to work. At least, he put it to work on the streets, but not in the kitchen, which was what Coran was trying vainly to alter. 

The dinner rush was slow that day, so Lance lingered around the back with Keith while he and Coran restocked the pastries for up front. Lance helped rearrange the pastries that would go on display in the front window, and sneakily popped a cherry into his mouth while Coran wasn’t looking. Keith looked down, smiling to himself when Lance bit the cherry between his lips and smiled at Keith.

He plucked the stem off and said, “Are you doing anything after this?”

_That depends on whether or not Shiro orders me in_ , he thought. “I don’t know, why?”

Lance gave a nonchalant shrug, flicking the cherry stem away and readjusting a set of rose-frosted cupcakes Keith placed on the top of the stack. “I dunno. I was wondering if… maybe you wanted to talk? About what happened the other day. Did you and Pidge work things out?”

“Yeah, it all worked out,” he said, which seemed to make Lance hesitate. He wondered if Lance was expecting Keith to be involved in something _illegal_. Like, he was about to get the news that Pidge planned on turning Keith into the police or something. Or, in a dramatic scenario, if Pidge was now tied up and locked in a closet to avoid the word getting out.

Just how terrible did Lance think he was now?

“I wouldn’t mind telling you about it over a drink. Are you free for an hour after this?” Keith asked, tilting his head thoughtfully. He studied the third tier of the show piece in silence before looking up and noticing that Lance was observing him with a remote look to his eyes. “I’ll pay this time if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not worried about that. It’s just…” he started, noting that Coran was returning to check on their work. Lance stepped back a bit from the counter, hips rocking back as Coran hummed appreciatively at their artwork. 

“What about all these extra pieces?” Coran asked, and Keith shrugged. “Fine then, take one for home. And give Allura one of the extra cupcakes—they turned out great, Keith.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling a little as Coran swept the show piece off the counter and headed for the front.

The moment he was gone Lance leaned back in, and said, “I mean, I love hanging out with you and all that and I don’t mean to sound desperate or anything but… casual relationships just aren’t my style. I’m not the greatest at being friends with benefits. And I hate to imply that… that’s what you’re going for but… it’s just what I’m kind of… picking up from you.”

“So you don’t want to get a drink with me because you think I’m not _serious_ about this?” Keith corrected. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Lance shrugged, leaning back and crossing his arms as he turned a bit incriminatory. “Kind of, yeah,” he confessed, frowning a little. “I just want you to know that I’m a serious-relationship kind of guy. And if all our ‘bar dates’ turn into what happened last time… I mean. I don’t know. I guess that’s just another fear of mine.”

“That’s reasonable,” Keith said quietly, taking in a deep breath before adding, “I wasn’t exactly looking for something noncommittal anyway.”

Lance hesitated for a second before a small smile came back to him. “Wait, so are you suggesting—?”

_Yes, yes I want to so badly_ , Keith thought. He wanted nothing more than to have justification to show up at Lance’s apartment unannounced, to walk him home every goddamn night. He wanted to date Lance so hard it hurt. They’d turn Sunday afternoons into walks through Central Park after breakfast with Pidge. They’d turn evenings into movie nights. He wanted to know everything about Lance. 

But this was all before Lance really knew a thing about Keith. He had to remember that.

“We’ll hold off until I explain to you what happened the other day. And if after that you’re still interested, I’ll take you on a real date,” Keith said.

This seemed to be exactly what Lance was hoping for. He thought he’d seen just about every level of exhilaration on Lance’s face, but this was different. The reaction was similar to what Keith expected a dog to do with the prospects of a walk: he ducked down onto the counter, bracing his hands there, eyes bright and smile wide. “Wait, seriously?” he whispered in fear of shouting.

Keith laughed, which was all Lance needed to jump up and holler before running around the counter to slam into Keith full force. “Tonight or another night? I get it if you wanted to get home early but—”

“Whatever works for you. I’d be fine with tonight,” he confessed, chuckling as Lance pressed their cheeks together, his arms coming around from behind and hands spread over Keith’s chest. 

After laughing for a few seconds, Lance gasped and covered his mouth with a hand. “Wait a second—I’ll be in my Quilted Lion _uniform_. God, can we go another time? I want to look _nice_ for once—”

“What are you talking about? You look _fine_ ,” he said, stressing the word in a sort of purr that sent Lance into a giggling fit against his shoulder. 

“What is going on in here?” 

Both Keith and Lance jumped at the sound of Coran in the doorway, hands on his hips and a look of mock-aggression on his face. Lance scrambled away from Keith and cleared his throat. “Sorry Coran. I’m just gonna… check on my last table,” he said quickly, scurrying towards the door and hurrying behind Coran. 

Keith was still laughing, and only laughed harder when Coran broke character and walked in, shaking his finger at Keith and saying, “I hate to say it but I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.”

“Thanks, Coran,” Keith said, still giggling a little as he turned back to the treats on the counter and went to take a cupcake out to Allura.

  


  


“I’m interested to see you in action. Do you think I could go to one of your matches? Do you have anything before the weekend—‘cause I have family visiting for Christmas and I wouldn’t be able to skip out on that,” Lance said as Keith paid for their drinks and left a tip on the bar. 

“The crowd’s sort of… not your style. And I don’t think Shiro would be willing to chaperone you or anything like that,” Keith confessed, and cringed at the idea of even _asking_ Shiro. “And if you go, then Pidge would want to go, and she’d get trampled or something. Not a good situation.”

“Not if we put her on Hunk’s shoulders,” he suggested, and instantly Keith was shaking his head. “What? Why not? It’s a decent idea!”

“ _No_. And even the tournament will be a bit rough. It’s a legal match, but it’s not, like, _clean_ you know? Whenever I visit Nyma’s matches I always hate it. I’m not the greatest spectator,” Keith confessed with a shrug.

“So Nyma. Who’s that?” he asked, looking down to his jacket as he rifled around one of the inside pockets. He pulled out a pack of gum and handed Keith a strip and got one for himself. 

As Keith unwrapped his piece he said, “Nyma. She’s one of the members of Shiro’s gym. We train together and stuff. She’s really good. She’s got the analytics down, and is _really_ good at making fast decisions. She works for Shiro on the side doing other things, since she’s got a sick mother at home and needs to pay for medical bills and whatever. She was there the day Ulaz’s thug surprise-attacked me. She took him down for me.”

“Wow, she seems intense. Is she hot?”

“ _Lance_.”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you already flirted with her. She went into The Quilted Lion a while ago to let me know if Hunk was gay,” Keith confessed, and after a moment of silence realized that Lance was waiting for Keith to look at him. His eyebrows were arched in distress, hand gripping his heart.

“Was I your second choice?” Lance whined.

“ _What?_ No! No—I thought you and Hunk were together since you two lived together,” he confessed, and Lance let out a sigh of relief. “Besides, I totally got you back for that—since Pidge managed to convince you I was straight.”

Lance burst into a loud laugh and slapped his hand over his mouth. Keith slipped his arm around Lance’s waist, grinning ear-to-goddamn-ear when Lance whined about how that “totally wasn’t funny!” 

“That night I bawled my eyes out! Hunk had to make me a hot chocolate, and everything. Fair warning, whenever I cry, hot chocolate is the cure.”

“I feel like Hunk knows all your dispositions better than I do. Why don’t you just date him?”

“God, I wish. He’s so cool and chill all the time. He’s friends with all the hippies in our class. We’ve been friends ever since his family moved to Milwaukee… I have Hunk withdrawals sometimes. I kinda miss him right now…” Lance confessed, leaning his head against Keith’s. He hummed against Keith’s cheek, and he felt the vibrations of it against his stubble. Lance’s cheeks always seemed to be freshly shaven—smooth and properly moisturized.

“Damn, I’ve got competition,” Keith whispered, and Lance didn’t even bother denying it. They walked in silence for some time, until they neared their destination. “We’re almost there.” 

“ _Good_. What time is it?” Lance asked. Keith pulled out his phone to check the time—a close-cutting 9:55—and noticed that Pidge texted him. He opened it and read about five words of it before his phone screen froze. He cursed, tapping on the keyboard only to watch it sputter off and die. “Oh shit, that sucks. I heard that—”

“—the cold drains batteries, we’ve been over this. And goddamn it’s every time I try and text Pidge.”

“Oh, man, I have her phone number. You wanna text her on my phone?” he suggested. “Best to avoid last time’s scenario.”

“Later. We’re crossing here—” Keith said, tugging Lance towards the street so they could cross. They stopped between two parked cars as a taxi drove by, and then hurried across, screaming when they realized that there was another car close behind the taxi. They barely avoided getting hit, but were assaulted by the blaring horn from the driver. Lance waved to them, apologizing, and Keith wondered just how drunk they looked—they only had one drink, which seemed to be enough for Keith and Lance to talk things over about Saturday morning.

Lance wore one of those heavy, wool trench coats with the flared collar, so his scarf fit nicely around it and reminded Keith oddly of Sherlock Holmes. He told him as much, which led Lance to ask about which version.

“Literally all of the versions. That’s, like, his style. Haven’t you seen Sherlock?” Keith asked, and Lance shrugged. “ _What!_ I don’t even have Netflix and I’ve seen the fuckin’… that fuckin’ British one with Cucumber or whatever.”

“ _Benedict Cumberbatch_ , thank you very much. And that man is flawless—I don’t see why you have to degrade his name by calling him a cucumber,” Lance said, tossing his scarf defiantly.

“The fact that you know his name and haven’t seen the show really says something to me,” Keith scoffed. 

He pulled Lance to a stop below one of those glowing marquee signs for an old fashioned movie theatre. It was a bit rundown, considering there was actually a massive crack through the sign, and a gaping hole in it. Keith followed Lance’s gaze up to it and said, “I was there when that happened.”

“What? Really? I’ve never even been here before,” he confessed, looking back down to Keith as he took out his wallet and went to the ticket booth. “Do you want me to argue that I pay instead of you?”

“You can pay next time. That seems to be our general method,” he commented, and Lance shrugged, muttering, “Sounds good to me.” 

As Keith paid for the tickets, Lance wandered beneath the overhang to squint at the darkened movie posters. None of the films would be recognizable, Keith realized, so he wasn’t surprised when Lance came back to him and said, “What are we watching?”

“Whatever’s on,” he said. “There’s only one theatre. Come on.” He held his hand out to Lance, who didn’t waste a second taking it. 

Keith led him into the worn entry area with the classic, soda-stained red carpets and smoke-wrecked 60s wallpaper. It was the only theatre Pidge and Keith ever went to, considering the cheap ticket prices and the fact that they usually didn’t care if you brought your own cheap food too. The entrance was empty, considering they were probably two minutes late to the movie anyway, so Keith tugged Lance away from the concessions and promised to go back if Lance wanted anything.

“Just so you know—they only show unrated indie stuff. I take Pidge here all the time and sometimes there are… kind of weird scenes…” Keith whispered as they went down the isle.

“Gee, thanks for taking me to an adult movie theatre,” Lance muttered, laughing as Keith snorted and shoved him a little.

The theatre was pretty empty, except for a line of teenagers closer to the front, and a few older couples scattered here and there. Overall it was a pretty small theatre with those ridiculous paneled movie theatre walls. The seats were comfy, though, and Lance flipped up the armrest so they could lean together like they were on a couch. 

Keith settled in and put his arm over Lance’s shoulders, and it didn’t take long for Lance to flip up the armrest next to him so he could kick up his legs and depend entirely on Keith for support. The trailers at the start were all really weird and artsy-abstract with awful text, so he and Lance criticized them until the lights fully dimmed and the movie started. Their critiques didn’t stop there.

Lance draped his heavy trench coat over them like a blanket, and Keith felt all cozy and warm inside just from being _around_ Lance. He had his arm around Lance’s shoulders and everything. If he thought sex with Lance was absolute bliss, this was pure nirvana. It’d been a good two years since Keith had a serious boyfriend—the one from the gym—and it was enough time for him to forget how great it felt being in someone else’s confidence. 

“Do you think thongs hurt?” Lance whispered during the middle of a scene where the main character stumbled out of bed in her underwear.

“Hell yeah. I hate wedgies to begin with.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Then why do girls wear them then?” Lance asked, and Keith shrugged. “I mean, they look nice… but are they practical?”

“I’m not going to agree with you on that first part,” he said quietly, grinning when Lance’s shoulders shook with laughter. 

Later on, Keith leaned in and whispered, “Why is it that Mary Sues always end up being stupidly good with magic in movies?”

Lance gasped a little and said, “That’s exactly what Hunk says. He hates cliches.”

“That’s plausible. And also, do you think some of the actors play characters who _use_ magic, but don’t use magic themselves?” he asked, and Lance gasped again, “[H](http://sabertoothwalrus.tumblr.com/post/148727424974/audio-from-here-please-dont-put-this-on-youtube)unk says that too!” 

Keith thought for a moment, remembering just how much time Lance likely spent with Hunk. They went to fucking high school together—and now they’re in the same university. Hunk probably knew more about Lance than Keith would, no matter how many soulful conversations they will have in the middle of the night or on long walks through Central Park.

Keith’s jaw tensed as he thought before leaning in again, lips brushing Lance’s ears, “Then does Hunk ever say anything about how beautiful your eyes are.”

He stayed there, even in the silence that passed. He grinned a little, feeling the heat rise to Lance’s ears—it was strange knowing that he had this effect on _anyone_ , let alone _Lance_. A moment later Lance dissolved into a fit of giddy giggles, curling into Keith’s chest and looking up at him. “You think my eyes are beautiful?” he asked.

Keith only grinned, turning his attention back to the screen.

Lance squirmed in Keith’s arms for a solid minute before calming down a bit. Keith could barely concentrate on the movie except for when they whispered about awful special effects and poor acting. One thing Keith loved about this theatre is that no one really cared to shush them. They weren’t being terribly loud, but he imagined that at any normal theatre they would have gotten kicked out for giggling excessively.

When the lights went up again, they stayed put while everyone picked up their things and left during the credits. Lance had his head in Keith’s lap as he lifted up his phone to check the time. He held it up to Keith, saying, “You wanna text Pidge now?”

“At least _someone’s_ keeping track. She probably hates me for forgetting,” he said. “Everyone has abandonment issues as Pidge is no better.”

“You really think that?”

“It’s a fact. I’m pretty sure I read an article on that in high school. Everyone’s personality dispositions are geared towards avoiding abandonment,” Keith said, navigating Lance’s phone quickly and typing in Pidge’s number. “Pidge hated university for _months_ because she wasn’t at home and Matt ‘stopped talking to her’. They had an argument over her education or something like that, but it’s all patched up now.”

“That sucks. And I suppose you’re right. Add abandonment to my list of fears, will you?” Lance said. Keith hummed in response, passing his phone back. The end of the credits was nearing. “Do you want to come by my place?” he asked. 

“I can’t. I have training tomorrow morning,” he confessed, but remembered the time. “This morning.”

“Could I come?”

“The gym isn’t really a place for spectators, sorry. And it’s not that interesting. It’s just Shiro telling people what to do. He’s got everyone’s training regimen down to a ’T’. It’s actually pretty impressive,” he confessed, rubbing a hand over his chin at the thought of Shiro. He stuck with Shiro for many reasons—as a manager and coach, all the goods outweighed the bad. Keith could live with that.

Lance sat up a little, lifting himself off Keith’s lap. “So when can we go out again? Christmas is coming up.”

At the mention of it, Keith panicked a little. “Do we have to get each other presents?” he asked. “Pidge and I don’t even swap presents.”

Lance snorted, sitting up and pocketing his phone as he said, “Pff, as if. I’m a broke college student paying for rent. I’d be cool with sex as a present any day.”

Keith slapped a hand over Lance’s face, laughing out of shock. Lance giggled, pulling Keith’s hand away and to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. Keith sobered a little, grinning with Lance as they sat side by side in the empty theatre. Except for the workers waiting for them to get the hell out so they could clean. 

He noted their presence at one of the entrances, so he turned back and said, “We should probably head out.”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm screechin' @youguys 'cause I'm already thinking of my next book and I just CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS. I'll probs make another SurveyMonkey because that really helped with developing this plot. But honestly before I even get there I want to know what YOU GUYS ARE LOOKING FOR and I'll base it off of your responses now. Tell me how you really feel. What version of Klance/Sheith are you looking for because I'm here to please the Fluff/Klangst Gods™ and also the fandom.


	9. Late Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the title switch! When I made this I had no clue what to call it so _Blades Are For Baking_ was kind of a placeholder title. I like this much better. It fits the Quilted Lion mood :)

The Quilted Lion was closed all weekend for the holiday, so Keith’s last day was on Thursday. He was delightfully surprised to find that Coran made presents for them all—emphasis on _made_. Keith walked home in a warm red Christmas sweater. Apparently the man had a knack for knitting. Allura’s was given a purple sweater-dress that she wore the entire day and all of the compliments on it were referred to Coran, who would blush and wave his hand at them bashfully.

Lance didn’t work that day. He asked off for the majority of the holiday because his family was visiting from Wisconsin. His two other siblings stayed at the apartment while his parents got the weekend to themselves at a hotel a few blocks away in the Lower East Side. Lance asked if Keith wanted to see them, but considering they only started dating recently, Keith figured it’d be bad luck to hop onto that boat. In truth, Keith worried that if the McClains didn’t like him, then Lance would listen to them over him. 

He didn’t have the greatest track record with parents to begin with.

Christmas was on a Sunday that year, so Keith trained through Friday and Saturday because he had nothing better to do. When he was at the apartment, though, he and Pidge indulged in a plethora of her favorite Christmas movies on her computer. He tried unsuccessfully to make hot chocolate the way Lance does, but failed. It was just regular Nestle powder hot chocolate with whip cream topping in the end.

“Just one more movie and then I have to get to the gym,” Keith said, bundled up on Pidge’s bed in a blanket. The heating wasn’t working properly again, so they resorted to blankets for warmth.

She whined but agreed to it. “Then we _have_ to watch _The Christmas Story_. We haven’t gotten there yet!”

“I never understood that movie. It jumps around too much,” he confessed, but she completely ignored him in favor of finding the movie online.

Keith’s phone buzzed in his lap so he dug around for it and pulled it out of the blankets to see in the light. It was a message from Lance, and one from Nyma about meeting up in Little Germany for a gym scope-out. It was in the East Side, not far from Shiro’s gym. He’d been there before, but supposed it might be a place some of his competitors frequented. 

_LANCE : Are you doin anythin later? I miss you_

_KEITH : Pidge and I are marathoning movies sorry._

_Miss you too._

  


He slung his gym duffle over his shoulders and stretched out on the apartment steps. It was bitter cold out, and his breath came out in huffs of cloudy air. It looked like just about everyone was smoking a cigarette these times of the month. 

He twisted his torso to and fro before setting out under the construction awning beside the apartment building. It didn’t take much for him to realize something as off, so he changed routes. He wasn’t even going to Shiro’s gym anyway. 

Nyma was waiting for him at the corner of a bar and restaurant, sat on the stoop with her heavy knitted scarf hiding her mouth. He slowed his jog to a walk and waved to her, panting. “You look ready to go,” she commented, and he shrugged. She glanced discretely behind him and said, “Also looks like you’ve got company.”

“I know. How worn out do they look?” he asked, smirking as she laughed evilly.

“You _monster_. Not everyone loves running as much as you,” she laughed, punching him in the arm. “C’mon. You gonna invite them over or should I?”

“You can.”

She leaned over, shouting, “Hey idiots! We can see you over there!”

The few strangers around them gave her weird looks, but Keith could hear Pidge’s annoyed groan. He laughed, turning to look back down the street where he came from. He remembered hearing the antique store door close—which was odd to begin with because not many people went there. That explained where Hunk and Lance were hiding when he was preparing for the run. 

“Shit,” Lance cursed, stepping out from behind Hunk and giving him a pat on the back. “It was a nice effort, huh?”

“I want to know where your gym is!” Pidge shouted, waddling over in her heavy winter coat and boots. Keith put his hands on his hips, glaring at her and then at Lance and Hunk.

“You could have just asked. And I’m not going there yet anyway. Nyma and I were gonna check out one of the names on the roster,” he said, nodding to her. She waved to them so he introduced all of them. She shook their hands and squealed a little when she got to Pidge.

“I’ve heard so much about you! Do you like hugs? I’m gonna hug you anyway, come here,” she cooed, rushing forward and squeezing Pidge tightly and lifting her off the ground. Pidge laughed, arms around Nyma’s neck and smile wide. “It’s so great to finally meet you after _all this time_. God, _finally_.”

“I wish I could say the same. I just heard about you for the first time not even a week ago,” she giggled, patting Nyma on the head before she was put back on the ground. “So you and Keith are gym buddies?”

“You bet! Sort of by default since everyone else is kinda testosterone-obsessed knuckleheads but what can ya do?” she said, shrugging and nudging Keith in the arm. He rolled his eyes and suggested they keep moving—he was dressed for _running_ not a casual walk. 

Nyma and Pidge talked the entire way there, mainly about any ridiculous secrets Nyma had about Keith. He fell in line with Hunk and Lance, and let his gloved fingers weave between Lance’s. “So I’m guessing Lance told you about all this,” Keith commented to Hunk.

“Yeah, but I didn’t believe him so he set up a stakeout with Pidge,” he explained, and Keith laughed. “But I’m not sure if running that far makes it worth it…”

“Wait, so who is this guy _you’re_ staking out if we were on a stakeout for you?” Lance asked, eyebrow quirked in confusion. 

“His stadium name is Sendak,” Nyma said. “Shiro gave me some information on him so I could figure out his schedule. He rotates open gyms both for anonymity and also for what I tend to do—people watch, in case he ends up fighting anyone from that gym.”

“Dedication,” Keith scoffed. “Have you seen him around before?”

“Once—big guy, bigger than this one over here. Hunk, right?” Nyma said, and Hunk squeaked a little at the thought of anyone being bigger than him. “Actually, I watched a match Sendak was in a while ago. _Really_ long time ago, before Shiro recruited me.”

As she talked, they approached the side of the recreation center. She held open the door for Pidge as Keith asked, “Yeah? And what’s he like?”

She grinned hellishly, saying, “ _Scary._ ”

The gym they walked into was modern, but modern in the 70s. There was some sort of obnoxious pattern on the carpet and the walls in the hall were multicolored. Keith scowled at it, until his gaze turned to Lance, who was looking up at Hunk as he talked about the last time he ever set foot in a gym. Now, Hunk has school as a main priority, and also he just didn’t care enough to visit one. 

Lance’s nose was a gentle curve, reaching to a soft peak, and the shape of it contrasted his darkened skin. His wide, rounded eyes were enough to piece it together, and based on everything that Lance said about home, Keith could already see the differences between his parents. The florescent light overhead reflected white off of his blue irises, which were an obvious difference to his ethnicity. Keith’s eyes would always be sharp and condensed with that familiar dark—almost black—hue.

Lance turned to face Keith, who managed a small smile and looked away. Lance was an anomaly in his own way, like Pidge was. Contradicting normativity.

Nyma whistled for Keith to come over, so he and Lance stepped up to the arched entrance leading to the gym. It was a two-story structure—a regular gym, not for boxing. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find Sendak here. “Weights are down, cardio’s up,” she told Keith. “I don’t see him down here. Let’s check upstairs.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They went back to the front corridor and found the steps leading up. They were positioned against a set of windows overlooking the gym area before opening up to the line of treadmills and bikes. Keith lingered out by the hall, his hand still locked with Lance’s, as Nyma wandered out into the cardio area.

“Do you guys do this often?” Hunk whispered, and Keith shrugged.

“Lately, yeah. We go to other gyms before training,” he said. “With the tournament coming up and all, we have to get prepared. We were only given a month in advance to check out our competitors. Otherwise we just stick to Shiro’s. It’s closest to the apartment, too.”

“That’s convenient, huh?” Pidge commented.

Keith scoffed a little, and figured now wasn’t the time to tell Pidge that nearly three years ago he chose to live in this area _because_ it was close to Shiro’s gym. It was the entire reason they ended up being roommates in the first place. Before Pidge, Keith used to be seventeen and an idiot for moving to New York.

Nyma came back, arms crossed and a sly grin on her lips. “He’s up here. Looks like he just got into his routine.”

Keith perked up, letting his hand slip out of Lance’s to go to the second floor entrance. The awful pattered carpet continued there, and across the crescent of treadmills, ellipticals, and bikes. Nyma nodded down the line, saying, “Fifth one in over there.”

The gym was pretty full—nearly every other treadmill was taken, but it didn’t take much for Keith to find Sendak. He didn’t even need to count the number of treadmills in—the man was monstrous compared to any of the people near him. Nearly everyone looked slim if they stood close enough to Sendak, regardless of their reason for choosing the torture of treadmills. Keith much preferred running outdoors as opposed to the monotony of indoor jogging.

Sendak was, in all honesty, the sort of guy he tended to fear. Shiro was quick to give Keith the tips on taking on larger opponents—that was one of the first set of advanced techniques Shiro taught him. Most of the time, big fellas didn’t scare Keith—but it seemed Hunk was the limit to that. This man was even bigger, buffer, but certainly not better, than Hunk. 

“Jesus,” Keith muttered, stepping back into the room. Sendak was at least a head-and-a-half taller than the man running next to him. His firm, black military cut was hardly something that looked soft around the edges. _Nothing_ about the man screamed “cotton ball” to Keith. He glanced at Hunk and pegged the guy to be one big cotton ball. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Nyma whistled. “We should probably wait ‘till he goes down to weights.”

Keith laughed hollowly, muttering a simple, “Yeah,” under his breath. The thought of fighting someone twice his size with a hairdo like that was seriously doing wonders to his anxiety.

  


  


“I want you to know that I am a professional ice-slider in these shoes,” Lance said, pompous as ever as he shimmied, shoes gliding, around in a circle. Keith hid his smile behind his gloves as Lance drifted towards him, one leg bent and the other splayed straight behind him—a majestic, figure-skating rendition. “Trust me, we don’t need skates.”

“This is what happens when you come unprepared,” Pidge chided, swinging her hips to and fro as Hunk came bolting out from the corner of their eyes. Keith staggered a little, startled as Hunk flew across the ice, arms up and feet even. He slid until his momentum brought him to a halt farther out on the ice. Lance kicked off with his feet, gliding over and trying his ultimate best to balance on one foot. 

Keith tested the ice a little and stepped back onto the shore. “Oh, come _on…_ ” Lance whined, and promptly urged Hunk to shove him across the ice. He came stumbling over, hands reaching for Keith so he was forced to step out and grab Lance.

Lance dragged Keith forward, laughing when he fell against his chest and Lance’s warm knitted scarf. He grabbed Lance’s arm and held on for dear life as they walked over to where Hunk was skating circles around the middle of the pond. Keith couldn’t even remember the last time he _willingly_ ice skated. Being from San Antonio, he didn’t exactly get much use out of the “colder” months in that sense.

But Hunk and Lance were killing it either way—with or without skates. Evidently Milwaukee had their own ice rink like Central Park’s skating ponds. Hunk would twirl Lance, and while it wasn’t as flawless as a goddamn figure skater, it still managed to impress Pidge, who clapped from the sidelines.

“I want to use magic this time,” Hunk pleaded as Lance coasted backwards, towards Keith. He bumped into Keith’s front, and he skidded a little before getting his balance again, holding onto Lance’s arm. “We’ll do the makeshift skates, like what your sister taught me.”

Lance perked up instantly, gasping and squeezing Keith’s hand. “Holy shit—watch this! When I was a kid we used to do this all the time.”

Keith dropped his arms, only to bring them up to the zipper of his jacket as Lance shook out his arms and braced himself, halfway to the stance of a runner on the track. Hunk was farther away, cracking his knuckles and holding his arms out. Keith knew what was about to happen before Lance even made a move, and it caused his heart to leap into his throat.

There were certain things people with magic could do that the average person couldn’t. Sure, it helped with tactical and technical skills like drawing, cooking, woodwork, painting… but there were physical qualities to it as well. Keith’s strength was proof of that, but that was more innate than abstract, as Allura described it. What Lance and Hunk could do was far more strategic and clever.

The magic bound itself to Lance’s feet in an almost undetectable shimmer. Keith saw makeshift skates like that on kids before, when he went on runs in the winter through Central Park. They were flat, and perfectly alined to the sole of Lance’s feet. If he squinted just right, he could see the same on Hunk’s, creating traction on an otherwise smooth floor. 

At just the slightest push of Lance’s feet, he took off at full speed—the type of speed that people usually got after a few laps of continuous skating. He went straight for Hunk—aiming slightly to the right. They latched on to each other’s arms, and it sent them both spirally away when Lance swung around Hunk, laughing loud.

They spiraled so fast that eventually their hands detached and they fell in opposite directions. Pidge clapped from the sidelines, and Keith joined in on the clapping a little late. Hunk slid across the ice on his back, Lance in the opposite direction, giggling like mad.

“Let’s do it again!” Lance shouted, pushing himself up onto his feet and using his enhanced shoes to skate towards Keith. He circled Keith, scarf flapping behind him. 

Lance swept his scarf off and spun it around Keith, fake-skates grating into the ice as he came to a halt in front of Keith and tossed a loop of striped fabric around the back of Keith’s head. “You wanna try it? You could do Hunk’s part—ya don’t need the fancy skates and stuff.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“Oh man, I bet ya’ll could go on forever with Keith’s whole thing going on. I mean, he could probably hold on to you no matter what when you guys spin around,” Hunk said. Keith hated the idea of it—what if one of them cracked their skulls open on the ice? He shouldn’t be skating _now_ —not with the tournament coming up. He was a terrible skater to begin with. If he so much as twisted an ankle he’d be ruined. Shiro would personally throttle him for it.

“I _really_ can’t,” Keith begged, tugging on the ends of Lance’s scarf. “If I get hurt Shiro will _kill_ me—”

“You won’t get hurt, trust me,” Lance promised. “I’ve done this _thousands_ of times. If you fall, I’ll soften the fall. It’s tough, and it’s just a one-time thing, but I can do it. Trust me, all right?” Keith couldn’t deny the fact that Lance’s eyes were perfect and round with anticipation. He really believed Keith would be better off trying it out than taking the safe route. For some reason, he felt inclined to agree, and maybe it was the subtle tinge of that pouty-face coming back through.

“Fine. I trust you,” he said, a bit annoyed that he was so easily manipulated. 

Lance jumped in and kissed him fast on the lips. His lips were chapped from the cold, but warm all the same and Keith hid his rosy cheeks behind Lance’s heavy knitted scarf. 

They split up and Keith shuffled over to where Hunk was. “All ya gotta do is latch on when Lance comes around. Face him the entire time, and _don’t let go_. Just twist your body to follow him, got it?” Hunk coached, gesturing with his explanation and going about the motions. Keith followed him, arms out, before agreeing. He could do this. He could do this.

Pidge was off on the sidelines with her phone out, and on the three count, she started recording Lance darting across the ice. In a matter of seconds they were face to face, and Lance’s hands were on his. Keith was ripped to the side, yelping and planting his feet without thinking.

He twisted his body like Hunk said, but Lance shrieked in excitement, his weight and momentum flinging them both around in a circle. Lance turned weightless—and unlike the constant spinning he and Hunk did across the ice, his feet left the ground, entirely dependent on Keith’s hands held out clasped onto his.

Keith spun with him, laughing and grounding himself against the ice as he spun. Eventually, the momentum faded, and Lance’s legs lowered, until his feet staggered onto the ice. He slipped, shrieking, and took Keith down with him. True to his word, though, about five inches from the ground it was like Keith hit a pillow, that slowly, gradually flattened him over Lance’s shoulders. 

He gasped, letting out a hoarse laugh as he raised himself up onto an arm. “Holy shit,” he laughed. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“That wasn’t exactly the plan, but that was _awesome_!” Lance cried out, throwing his arms around Keith’s shoulders as he shouted, “Pidge! Did you get that?”

“Hell yeah I did! That was awesome, Keith!” she shouted, leaping off the ground with an excited hoot. 

His legs were starting to feel numb from sitting on the ice, and when he got up the air felt cold against his legs. He reached a hand out to Lance, who took it and let Keith fling him up to his feet, steadying him with both hands on Lance’s shoulders. It was a miracle that they hadn’t managed to take out one of the small children on the ice with that stunt. 

“See? Nothing to worry about,” he said, beaming at Keith as if he wasn’t just flung several feet into the air.

  


  


Christmas passed uneventfully except for the annual holiday phone call from his mom back in San Antonio. He rarely ever spoke to her nowadays. There wasn’t much to talk about to begin with. Their mutual understanding to stay out of each other’s lives was enough for them, evidently—though Pidge always seemed to say otherwise. One of her many criticisms about what Keith did happened to be his lack of communication with his goddamn mother. It wasn’t Pidge’s business to begin with, and he always made a point to tell her that whenever she brought it up.

Their phone calls were always stiff and awkward and Keith couldn’t imagine ever seeing his mother in person after spending so much time apart. He hated calling people to begin with. Talking to someone over the phone meant tuning in to the sound of their voice—their stutters, their breath, their word choice. At least with a face-to-face conversation Keith could gauge facial expressions. Now he tended to judge his mom based on her awful word choice. He couldn’t blame her accent for that anymore—she had excellent English, which just meant she knew the exact words that made talking to her insufferable. He didn’t need to be reminded of every goddamn thing he left behind in San Antonio.

It was in the early morning, just before Pidge left to hang out with her brother and the rest of her family. He left the apartment so she wouldn’t have to hear him stammer over sentences trying to tell his mom that everything was fine. Just outside the door, he stumbled into a package on the ground. The wrapping was shit, which told him exactly who put it there. He nudged it into the apartment, noting Shiro’s name on the packaging, and shut the door behind it.

“But your roommate called a few weeks ago asking where you were. You always disappear like that—you do realize roommates look for consistency, right? Disappearing like that is unnerving; what if she doesn’t want to live with you by the time your lease is up?” his mom said. Keith rubbed a hand over his eyes as her voice became muffled by something between her teeth. “Did you get the money I sent you?”

“Yes, but I don’t need it—you didn’t have to send me that…” he groaned.

“But I’m your mother—Keith, even if we don’t live together, that doesn’t make you any less a part of me.”

“But you _aren’t_ , mom—”

“I sent you that because I care about you—don’t waste it like you did your tuition money. I saved up _everything_ so you could just—”

“ _Stop_ making this about you! I don’t need your money—stop sending it!” he hissed into the phone. “If you planned on calling to complain about your goddamn finances, don’t peg it on me. I’m not even in your life anymore. Don’t bring up something that happened four years ago. I’ve already explained myself to you _too many times_.”

There was silence on the other end. Keith’s hands went to the knitted fabric around his neck. Lance let him hang on to the scarf after their get-together at Central Park, and it would be a miracle if Keith ever managed to pluck up the will to take it off. His mom returned to the speaker, and the sound of her breath hissed in, and exited in a deep exhale. It crackled over the line. “You can’t keep excluding yourself from this.”

“I can take care of myself, mom,” he whispered. “I’ve _been_ doing it for the past three years. I’m fine where I am.”

“Okay then. Have a nice Christmas,” she said. He muttered the same, but the line was already dead. He looked at the screen, and the picture of his mom that looked way too old to be an accurate representation of her now. Last he checked, her hair wasn’t black anymore. 

He shut off his phone and turned back to his apartment door across the hall. He paced far enough away so that even eavesdropping, Pidge wouldn’t be able to hear him. Thankfully, though, when he came back to the apartment, she was packing a bag to head over to Matt’s apartment across the town. She hurried into the living room, stuffing together her backpack with her laptop, clothes, and toiletries when Keith shuffled in and observed the mess.

“Hey,” he said. 

She jumped, startled by his reappearance, and pushed some of her heavy red hair out of her face. It tended to stick underneath her glasses. “Um, hey. How’s your mom?” 

“The same.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing even as she said it. He shrugged, collapsing back onto the couch, arm slung over the back of the cushion where Pidge’s jacket was. He plucked it off and handed it to her. “I mean, that sucks. What’s Lance doing today?”

“Family stuff.”

She hesitated for a moment, studying her backpack before asking, “And what are you doing today? I mean, if you want I could ask Matt if you could come with—”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ve never really been about the whole ‘celebrating the holiday’,” he confessed. He never even recalled a time when there was a real Christmas tree involved. Not even a fake one. Sure, his mom tended to give him a present or two just to make the occasion, but it was never anything to look forward to in his opinion. “I might head over to Shiro’s. I’ve got my own key so I can get in whenever. I doubt he’ll be there—the place is closed today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Also closed, but I’ve got a lot of training to catch up on,” he confessed, combing a hand through his hair as Pidge slipped her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, and tugged on her backpack. A buzz sounded in her pant pocket, and she answered it immediately.

“That’s Matt. I’m gonna head out—don’t work too hard,” she said, holding out her fist for him to punch. He lifted his hand lazily before dropping it. “That was weak. I expect better next time.”

“Fine. Tell your brother I say hi,” he said, waving as she headed out the door. 

Keith would have spent his entire day lounging around, or at Shiro’s gym, had he not gotten a random call in the midst of preparing to leave the apartment. He was surprised to find a name on his phone other than Lance’s, and was completely thrown off by Allura’s name there instead. In the time it took for him to wonder whether or not it was an accidental miscall, a few rings went by and he answered it with a hesitant, “… Hello?”

“Hey Keith, sorry to bother you. Merry Christmas and all that—I was calling to ask if you’re doing anything today? A bit late notice.”

“Super late notice,” he whispered, but added, “No, I’m not really doing anything.”

“Are you with family at all?”

“No, I’m just… at home.” It was just plain odd. He never really took the time to wonder whether or not the lady boss was a religious person, or even celebrated Christmas. He just assumed that she did because that was what society tended to lean people towards, but if this Nyma-Method told him anything, it was that analyzing Allura’s call within the first minute probably wasn’t the greatest idea.

“Perfect. Would you want to spend an hour or two with me? I’d like to show you something,” she said. He scowled at that, but was too intrigued to turn down the offer. So he agreed to it, and gave her his address. Whether or not this was a terrible idea was still up for debate. Her last words were, “Dress warm.”

Allura swung by not long after they hung up on one another. She texted a simple, “Here,” and Keith was out the door, and down the elevator. He hurried down the stoop and glanced at all the windshields of the cars parked outside his apartment, searching for Allura’s familiar white hair. 

Instead, he walked down the block and found her out in the open, straddling a sleek black and blue motorcycle in the middle of the goddamn winter. The motorcycle itself was polished, with a rounded glass windshield and curved handlebars. It looked oddly familiar, and he wondered if he saw it outside the café somewhere—that was likely the case considering Allura lived above the café anyway. 

She was sporting a heavy purple scarf around her furry hood, and the helmet she had tucked in her lap. Every time he saw her he questioned a little piece of himself that reminded him exactly why Shiro was so infatuated with her. It was impossible to deny how perfect Allura was, and the fact that she had a motorcycle was even better. He wondered if Shiro was aware—perhaps he had new material to lord over his boss.

She perked up at the sight of Keith and swung her leg over her motorcycle. “Keith! How are you? Is everything going all right with you?”

He cleared his throat, tucking his face closer to the fabric of Lance’s scarf. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s this all about anyway?” he asked. 

She leant against the seat as she unlocked her extra helmet and tossed it to him. “Well, I spend every day either at The Quilted Lion, or at the university. When I have neither of those options I tend to improvise.”

He hesitated, lowering the helmet a little. “Wait—but it’s a holiday…?”

She shrugged and said, “I don’t have any family to visit. Now come on, I want you to meet someone.”

The helmet fit nicely over his straight, black hair, and with the tinted visor tipped over his eyes, he approached Allura’s motorcycle and felt invincible. Shiro would never forgive him for this. Keith’s bragging rites went off the charts the second he straddled the seat behind her, and tugged his arms around her waist. _Holy shit_ , he thought, smugly as Allura put up the kickstands and started the engine. They coasted out of their parking spot and wove onto the road, gliding like the wind pulling through the stray strands of her white hair, peaking out from the edges of her helmet.

Keith kept track of every corner they took, and the streets they turned on. Whenever they came to a stoplight, he’d lean back on the seat with his hands clasping the hook behind him. The motorcycle would tip towards the foot Allura braced on the ground, one hand on her hip. The chances of him being able to get photographic evidence before the cold killed his phone was slim, but Keith was willing to take the chance. He opened Snapchat, discretely took a picture and circled the strand of white hair leaking out from the helmet. “ _Recognize this?_ ” he wrote, saved it, and texted it to Shiro.

A second after they started moving again, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. His triumphant grin was masked by the reddish tint of his visor.

The maroon brick buildings became reminiscent of Greenwich Village, and suddenly they were passing The Quilted Lion and heading in the direction of the university. Keith glanced back at the glowing blue sign, feeling the wind pull his jacket close.

She pulled up to an apartment in the more expensive side of Greenwich. The road curved and was relatively empty except for the snow dusting the trees trapped between blocks of cement and iron grates. The kickstands scratched against the layer of ice below them, and once the engine cut out, Keith plucked his helmet off and let Allura lock it up. 

“So… what are we doing, exactly?” he asked as he pushed off the ground and swung his foot over the handle hook in the back.

His eyes coasted over the stone steps and stone railings, with the detailed iron fencing blocking off the lower apartments. He heard Allura’s helmet shift over her hair, and she said, “Visiting a professor at the university. I think he might be able to help you, to figure out the extent of your magic.”

He hesitated, and slowly turned to face her. Her heeled boots clapped against the ice, and onto the concrete sidewalk where she turned to him and gestured for him to follow along. “I… really don’t think this is necessary—”

“It’s my treat. I would have done this sooner, after Hunk and Lance insisted, but between classes and The Quilted Lion, I don’t get much time off,” she said.

“But you didn’t need to waste your day off on me,” he insisted, but she was already walking away. He slammed his hands down, and groaned under his breath. Yet another reason why Shiro adored Allura: she didn’t take no for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omfg I made [art](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/156961754855/in-which-keith-is-a-street-boxer-and-lance-is-a) of Lance and Keith in front of Lance's apartment. But seriously I need to do homework. I put my homework on hold for this chapter and the art.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments and love for this fic :D The Quilted Lion Café is honored.


	10. This Could Be Love

Allura used the golden knocker and hammered on the door a few times. “Professor Kolivan is a friend of mine. He recruits for the school on occasion and is the most competent introductory course professor I know of.”

_Introductory course my ass_ , Keith muttered internally. It was a bit late to start the basics that children learn in elementary school about the simple aspects of magic. It was like going back to addition and subtraction in math. It was like _learning_ numbers all over again. He was twenty-two years late to this lesson.

As they waited, she turned to him and said, “I don’t believe in leaving talents like charms go to waste. For all I know, every person I pass on the street could have been the Picasso of charming if only they honed the skill.”

“It’s nice of you to offer,” he murmured, “but schools nowadays tend to hammer it into you. It just didn’t stick with me.”

“Interesting. Back when I was in grade school, they tended to hammer in maths… I loathed maths,” she confessed, tapping a finger to her chin just as the door came unlocked.

An older man opened the door in and offered a blunt smile to them. Keith noted his squarish jaw shape, that was framed by his heavy grey hair and roundish wire glasses. The man’s most notable feature happened to be the thick, wiry braid falling over one shoulder, and those golden brown eyes that briskly took in Keith’s figure before turning back to Allura. “This is the boy you mentioned.”

_I’m not exactly a ‘boy’_ , he mused bitterly.

“Yes. Keith, this is Professor Kolivan. Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” she said, and guided Keith inside upon the casual gesture of Professor Kolivan’s hand.

The foyer met with the bottom of the stairs, and the hallway connecting the living room to the kitchen. It was hardly a modern arrangement—the walls of the foyer were covered in black and white pictures, and it smelled distinctly of… older cologne. He didn’t exactly mind the scent considering it reminded him of a rainy forest shrouded in mist. He and Allura slipped off their shoes and left them on the patterned entry carpet.

“You’re an athlete,” the professor commented, and instantly the calm of the house vanished from Keith’s limbs. His jaw tensed as he glanced sparingly at Professor Kolivan on their way to the living room. The professor merely glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before turning away. Talk about an unnerving gaze. “Just an observation. I obtained my masters in psychology and my thesis involved studying the language of the human body and micro-expressions.”

“In other words, he’s excellent at dissecting a person just based on their appearances,” Allura explained. Keith swallowed hard, wondering just how much this “meeting” would turn into a complete disaster. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” Professor Kolivan said as he took a seat in one of the leather armchairs. Keith sat in the nearby couch, stiffly as Allura took the seat beside him and reached for a book on the coffee table. Keith leaned over his knees, forearms against his thighs until the professor reached out for his hand and commented, “You don’t see hands like these every day. Have you broken this one before?”

“Yeah. A few years ago,” he confessed. He was an idiot and didn’t realize punching people straight in the jaw was the worst possible decision.

“Would you mind if I borrowed your hand for a moment?” he asked, and Keith shrugged, glancing over at Allura. She was grinning down at the page she was reading. 

Professor Kolivan pressed both of his palms over Keith’s, smoothing out his fingers and holding onto them gently. He closed his eyes, and was silent for a good five minutes. Within the first minute of it, Keith started to pick out the sound of the clock in the foyer, and the cars out in the street. Whenever Allura turned a page, it sounded infinitely louder than everything else. It was so damn quiet. He could hear the distant, quiet hum of the refrigerator running.

There was a small Christmas tree positioned atop a table in the corner of the room, and on it there were picture ornaments of people—probably relatives, grandchildren, friends. He couldn’t quite tell from this far away.

Eventually, the professor spoke again, startling Keith out of his trance. “You were right, Allura. I can see what I can do about transferring his magic output. It isn’t quite the sixth sense you and I use it as.”

“What is it then?” Keith asked. He’d heard things about magic feeling like an extra sense. He never understood that. How could there be anything beyond scent, taste, touch, sight, and hearing? It was bizarre, but then again, he was never even able to use magic on his own will.

“It’s instinctual. I was just simply tracing your magical footprint—think of it as a heartbeat, picking up in times of stress or excitement, or other emotional factors. The last time you used a fragment of magic was yesterday. It’s usual for magic to be connection to your emotional output, but our goal is to… reroute your output,” he explained.

“A lot of beginners tend to be in this same situation. Some teachers are better at rerouting than others—sometimes it takes a few sessions, and others it takes years,” he continued, lowering Keith’s hand and giving it a soft pat. “I will teach you how to use your magic, if you are willing to learn.” 

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he confessed. “I didn’t exactly… _plan_ on ever using magic. I don’t really need it.”

“And that’s fine. Sometimes what we view as useless skills are actually the most useful,” Professor Kolivan said, grinning a little. “When I was younger I thought reading was pointless. I’ve always been a terrible reader—my wife would read all my textbooks to me in grad school.”

Allura giggled and said, “I’m sure she was a lucky woman.”

“I dare say she’s smarter than me now because of it. She was an English and literature major—she could have taken all my courses for me without batting an eye,” he laughed. “But what I mean to say is that reading wasn’t, and isn’t something I take pleasure in. But it’s useful for everyday things. Reading signs. Letters. Emails. Being literate makes my life easier, and being literate in other languages makes it infinitely more so. Understanding the language and art of magic, while not useful to you, is still more beneficial than a life without it.”

Keith tucked his hands together between his knees and considered it. He wondered what Pidge would say, if she knew he was sitting here considering it. Even she never really bothered to try and teach him—it took professionals to break magical blocks like this. He wasn’t broken because of it, and he knew that. He was completely aware of it. But he worried what life would be like if he _could_ suddenly use it to his advantage. Would he regret the past twenty-two years of his life for not entertaining the idea of it?

“Do you think… I’d be able to learn how to use _awen_?” he asked, smiling a little. The professor chuckled, and Allura laughed out loud.

“Yeah, I’d say you could. It’ll take practice, but I could contact one of my friends who teaches _awen_ courses. If everything works out, you could be using _awen_ by the end of the semester,” he said, and Allura agreed with him. 

  


  


_SHIRO: Fuck you._

_Is that a motorcycle?_

_MISSED CALL from SHIRO._

_SHIRO: Answer your goddamn phone you piece of shit_

_She owns a motorcycle?_

_Where the hell are you?_

_MISSED CALL from SHIRO._

_SHIRO: Fuck you too. Good luck finding a new coach._

_That was a joke. Im still pissed._

  


  


“You shouldn’t be drinking,” his coach’s familiar voice chastised from behind. Keith jumped a little in his barstool, swiveling around and meeting Shiro practically face-to-face. His knees bumped into Shiro’s leg. “No more alcohol until after your last match, got it?”

“Whatever, _dad_ ,” he muttered, spinning back around. Shiro took the seat beside him and waved the bartender over. “Since you aren’t my coach anymore I don’t have to listen to you, so I mean…?”

“I’m still your coach, smartass,” he hissed, and ordered himself a vodka sour, and tugged his coaster closer before the drink even showed up. “So what’s this about you spending Christmas with Allura?”

“Nothing.”

“But she has a motorcycle.”

“Yeah.”

Shiro huffed out through his nostrils, lips tight and brow furrowed. He looked away and back at Keith, saying, “What do you want from me?”

Keith thought long and hard about this before he even called Shiro up and arranged for this meeting. It was all a matter of how much Shiro valued this information—the possibility that Allura mentioned Shiro during the day was too great to ignore for him. This information had a high price.

“I get nine tenths of the prize,” he said, glass against his lips as he said, “When I win.”

It was a two-handed win for Keith. He’d get nine thousand of the prize money, which was a thousand more what they stood at now. And he would also get to see just how confident Shiro was in his chances of winning. So far, his odds of winning became greater and greater the longer Shiro stayed silent.

His coach rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin, drawing it up the side of his face. The bartender placed his drink on the coaster in front of him. Shiro took a few sips of it before saying, “Fine. You get nine tenths. What the hell happened yesterday?”

So Keith explained everything, since Shiro practically gave him a grand to tell it. He went so far as to give every goddamn detail of what it felt like holding onto Allura’s torso from behind on the motorcycle. He went so far as to postulate whether or not she worked out based on the firmness of her abdomen. He explained his meeting with Professor Kolivan, which led to a lesson on the basics of spiritual meditation, which all three of them participated in. They didn’t really get into the actual state _of_ meditation, but the entire session made Keith feel like he had to take notes.

“And afterwards, Allura treated me to banana pudding at this place called _Magnolia Bakery_? And it was really good? Like, it’s really fluffy and has that sort of texture that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Apparently it’s one of her favorite bakeries and she used to go there with Coran when she was younger. They’d go on Sundays after church and they’d split a cup of banana pudding. And when she was in college she had a rough breakup with a guy from one of her classes, and her friends took her there. So now half the time she goes there it makes her think of that awful breakup. They watched _Sex And The City_ all day and fell asleep midway through the movie.

“But other than that, we walked around until we finished the pudding because we couldn’t eat it on the motorcycle. And she asked me why I wasn’t spending Christmas with _you_ —it was a really long, complicated conversation that led to that. I think she was trying to dance around the point. But anyway, I said you didn’t celebrate Christmas, but usually on Christmas day you get presents for some of your workers and make your rounds with them.” 

“What’d she say to that?” Shiro asked.

“She thought it was sweet. She doesn’t really celebrate the holiday either but she likes the idea of giving presents. But honestly, Lance told me a while back that she really likes you. He and Hunk both speculated it, and Coran doesn’t like to get into those conversations so I didn’t ask him. But I’d say you have a good chance with her. I mean, she talked about you for a good ten minutes after we finished our pudding. She thinks you fart unicorns and rainbows and give presents to orphans.”

Shiro laughed, and Keith wondered just how much Allura would die inside and ascend into Heaven if she saw what Shiro looked like then. Keith couldn’t help but laugh a little with him, because if Hunk and Lance were right, then Shiro had nothing to worry about when it came to Allura. Except, maybe, Shiro’s place of employment. 

“So… she really talked about me?” he asked, sounding hesitant to smile about it. Too bad he already was.

Keith laughed and said, “I didn’t even have to bring you up. She did that all on her own. And I’m in no position to be callin’ the shots here, but… I’d suggest asking her to take a spin on her motorcycle.”

“ _No_ , no. I couldn’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. Keith didn’t say anything, because he knew what Shiro was worried about. It was exactly what worried Keith about this.

“You could just tell her what you do for a living. Everyone has to make money somehow.”

“Yes, but why couldn’t it have just been… owning a _bar_ or something?” he complained, and Keith smiled in remembrance of his conversation with Lance all that time ago. Shiro did seem like the sort to own a bar—not that there was ever a particular “sort” who owned bars. It just seemed to suit his vibe. “I’m worried that… spending too much time with her might make the news a bit harder to bear.”

“You’re already spending too much time with her,” Keith countered. “She’s _infatuated_ with you. It’s a bit too late to say you want to keep your whole goddamn life a secret from her. I already lied to Lance a while back about what you do for a living.”

Shiro scoffed, lifting his glass to his lips. “What makes you such an expert on relationships now, hm?” Keith scowled at him as Shiro downed the rest of his drink. Keith as about to take a drink as well, but Shiro put his hand over his glass and pressed it back onto the bar. “No more drinking. You heard me.”

“I thought you were kidding.”

“No more drinking.”

“But _New Years—_ ” Keith whined, but gave up when he caught the deadly glare Shiro directed at him. “Okay, no drinking.”

So three days passed and The Quilted Lion opened again, and Lance sidled up to Keith, saying, “Hunk and I have plans on getting smashed this New Years. You in?”

Keith debated it for a moment before saying, “What the hell, sure, why not? Anything specific planned?”

“Just drunk Mario Kart, maybe a few games. Hunk hates going to Times Square on New Years so we’re just gonna chill at the apartment. You can bring Pidge if you want,” he suggested. “I was thinking about inviting Allura and Coran, so if you get Shiro to come…? I mean, we’ve been planning on getting them to hook up—wait, I phrased that wrong. I mean _Allura and Shiro_. Coran some how ended up in the middle of that but you know what I mean, right?”

Keith laughed, grinning down at his hands as he rolled out the dough on the flour-powdered countertop. “I can ask him but—I mean, do you really think Allura and _Coran_ want to hang out with us?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow up at the thought. They just seemed to… reformed for that. 

“Oh hell yeah. Coran’s excellent at karaoke—we went to a karaoke bar last year.”

“So you’ve done this before with them?” he laughed, and Lance agreed, leaning over the counter to snag a few chocolate chips from the ceramic bowl. After he sprinkled them into his mouth, Coran came hustling over, chasing Lance out of the kitchen with a goddamn breadknife. 

Coran sighed, hands on his hips, and turned back to Keith’s work. He waved his hand at it, saying, “Too flat. Right here it’s too thin.”

“Dammit,” Keith hissed, setting the rolling pin aside and folding the dough back together. “Lance was just talking about New Years plans. Apparently you’re awesome at karaoke?”

Coran threw his head back and laughed, orange mustache curling around his smile. “Ha! Only after a few drinks. But yes, last year we went to a bar that happened to have karaoke going on. Allura and I sang a duet. If I remember correctly, it was Billy Medley and Jennifer Warnes. Ah, back in the day I used to be a part of my school’s acapella group. We traveled _internationally_ —but after a wild turn of events and a bar fight later, I ended up with a crushed larynx and they had to surgically open my airway. I have a little nick right here to prove it.”

He pressed a finger to his throat, and Keith could see the signs of a pale white scar. Coran buttoned the top of his collar again as he added, “Well, I couldn’t sing for a while—dropped out of acapella and joined the pole vaulting team! And now I am here and my voice is as good as new. Charming helps a little with that.”

Keith narrowed his eyes at him, hand on his hip. “Prove it.”

Suddenly Coran was clearing his throat, and Keith’s eyes went wide because he didn’t think the man would go for it. And then, in a slow build, Coran’s voice came through like sweet caramel—heavy, deep, rich with that languid motion that happened whenever Keith dipped a spoon into pure melted caramel. 

“ _[Now](https://youtu.be/l9BbUqHrWFI?t=10s) I’ve… had the time of my life…_

_No I never felt… like this before…_

_Yes I swear—it’s the truth—_

_and I owe it all to you—_ ”

Coran’s voice was jazzy, and as he hesitated on the next lines, he was intercepted by a voice breaking out from the front counter. Keith laughed, clasping his hand over his mouth as Allura swung in front of the kitchen window, hands over her heart, singing out: 

“ _‘Cause I’ve—had—the time of my li-ife…_

_and I owe it all to you…!_ ”

Coran started shimmying towards the window, and Keith felt like he was going to die inside. Allura laughed, running to the kitchen door as Coran burst through, belting out, “ _I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR SO LONG—NOW I’VE FINALLY FOUND SOMEONE TO STAND BY ME…!_ ”

He heard Lance shriek from out in the dining area, “Oh no—Keith what have you done!”

Keith laughed hard, running to the window and leaning out as Coran and Allura sang together, circling one another, shimmying to and fro in perfect synchronization. He caught Lance’s eye and shrugged, grinning ear-to-ear. They were completely reenacting _Dirty Dancing_ right before the entirity of the café. And on top of it all, Keith spotted Shiro in his regular booth, leaning into his hand as he watched with everyone else while Allura and Coran absolutely _killed it_.

“— _This could be love—! Because—_

_I’VE HAD—THE TIME OF MY LIFE…_

_NO I NE-VER FELT THIS WAY BEFORE—_ ”

The entire café was clapping along to the beat as Allura swung over the counter, sliding across the tiles with Coran in pursuit. They spiraled together, hands together—Coran spun her around and caught her, dipping her, and swinging her back up in time to pose for the finale. Everyone went wild, and Keith clapped until his hands burned. As the noise settled down, the actually music on the speakers faded back in, and Allura slapped Coran on the shoulder, saying, “Now that I’m _completely_ distracted—get back to work!”

Lance was still staring with his jaw dropped, standing in front of one of his tables. Allura strode up to him and pressed her finger beneath his chin, shutting his mouth. “I’m sure you’re the one who started this,” she accused.

“Wha—! No, that was all Keith I swear—” he started, and Keith gawked from the window.

“What are you talking about? _You_ were the one to mention karaoke!” he said, pointing a finger at Lance. Allura silenced them both with a sharp look, and the customers at Lance’s table giggled among themselves. 

She straightened the front of her dress shirt and glanced over her shoulder, and Keith knew she happened to make eye contact with Shiro because she instantly turned back around, tan cheeks red. She bit into her bottom lip as she hurried back to the counter as a new customer came in and approached the register. After thoroughly reevaluating herself and washing her hands, she pegged Keith with a knowing look and said, “Don’t you have cookies to make?”

He blushed and hurried to the back where Coran was cutting through loaves of homemade cinnamon sugar bread. Coran looked up at Keith and winked, saying, “Proved it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HONESTLY I WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING: Like, given that this was a limited Klance chapter, DID YOU FEEL DISAPPOINTED? I want to know if scenes like this are boring and feel like fillers because that totally isn't my intention--but if that's the case PLEASE TELL ME. 
> 
>  
> 
> **[SURVEY IS UP LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/RK6LQYL)** Also there's a hint of what'll be in the next book. The plot will start formulating soon...


	11. Magical Footprint

“You’re a boxer,” Professor Kolivan said when Keith wasn’t even two steps into the foyer the following day. He hesitated on the rug, practically tripping himself over it.

“What?” he squeaked, spinning back around to face the professor. His slim round glasses glinted in the sunlight streaming through the door window. “What makes you think—”

Professor Kolivan reached towards him, gently and without threatening intent. Keith only flinched slightly when he pulled Keith’s hand up to the light and brushed aside them sleeve of the bright red Christmas sweater Coran made him. He came straight from practice, and it wasn’t unusual for there to be lines from the gauze pressing into his skin. His fingers were always a bit swollen afterwards as well—the pads of his fingers calloused. 

“You mentioned that you were an athlete as well,” he explained, lowering Keith’s hand down again. “I understand if you’d prefer that we don’t discuss that with Allura. I figured as much the day she brought you here.”

“Oh,” he said, quietly, and followed after the professor. They entered the living room, where the coffee table from before was pushed off to the side. “And you aren’t… concerned about it?”

“Why should I be?” the professor asked, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground. His knees cracked underneath his hands. “You can do as you please. And hobbies shouldn’t be interrogated. Well—unless it’s an illegal recreation then I suppose I would intervene. But I am excellent at sniffing out drug-users and the like. You are not one of them.”

“That’s a relief,” Keith said, breathless as he sat down cross-legged.

Professor Kolivan chuckled, wide cheeks creasing. “You seem nervous. Will you allow me to press my hand to your chest?”

 _That’s kind of a weird question_ , Keith thought, eyebrows condensing, but he agreed to it anyway. 

Keith liked to think he was good at predicting hits. In street boxing, that came in handy—he could level the direction of a punch based on the shift in weight of his opponent’s foot stance. He could read suggested movements based on the motion of his opponent’s torso. He could read eyes well. Wherever his opponent looked was likely the next area of attack.

But Professor Kolivan was different. Which was why when his hand jolted forward, Keith wasn’t paying attention to it. The heel of his palm knocked the wind out of Keith’s chest, and he fell back as a shockwave of—something cold and enveloping reverberated through him. He felt it leaking out of the back of his head, like blood oozing out and relieving the pressure on his brain. 

His vision focused suddenly—drawn in to the slow, gradual retraction of Professor Kolivan’s hand. He was finally able to focus on his professor’s stance—the subtle motion of his free hand curled into a loose fist against his buttoned shirt. The guided intensity of his straightened hand, palm facing Keith.

The warm liquid seeped back into Keith, relinquishing the chill that froze the world and drawing him back. He flew forward—which he knew instantly was odd. A force like that would flatten him on his back in less than a second.

He breathed hard, gripping his chest. “What did—what was that?”

“A soft realignment. How do you feel?” his professor asked, calm as ever.

“Like you just _punched me_ in the goddamn chest— _Christ_ ,” Keith hissed, pressing a hand to the ground. 

“Think past that. You seem to be good at thinking past pain,” he said, and Keith’s initial instinct was to curse at him, but that would just be denying what Keith did every match. He lowered the hand on his chest and took a deep breath, letting it quench the ache under his skin. 

After it faded, Keith came back to himself and realized that it was so much more than a punch to the chest. Something about him felt… lighter. Almost like the metaphorical hot liquid that poured out of his head was relieved. His mind felt just as light. It would take several hours for him to remember everything he had to worry about.

“I feel better,” he confessed, releasing a calculated breath as he looked up at his professor. Professor Kolivan nodded, encouraging.

“Good. Now I want you to concentrate on what I do next and tell me what you experienced. Understood?” he said, and Keith swallowed hard, nodding. It unnerved him with how little he could predict his professor’s movements.

The next hit was to the forehead. The world froze again—mid-fall—and this time he could _feel_ that cool texture moving through him, fluidly, like water being dumped over his skin. Seeping through his skin. _He said to concentrate_ , Keith thought, and so he concentrated on the sensation, beyond that of the image of Professor Kolivan with his hand outstretched, the heel of his palm retracting slowly from Keith’s forehead.

It felt heavier than water—the liquid. It was all-consuming once it enveloped him from the shoulders up—the arms up—the torso up. It wrapped him up like Lance’s knitted scarf. There was something about it that paralyzed him and caused him to see this way, and slow time. 

And then, the cool liquid lifted back up, pealing off his head and retracting back into Professor Kolivan’s hand. It was all rather invisible—as far as Keith could tell.

He rocked forward, gasping, but not nearly as dramatic as the first time. “Is that your magic?” he asked, panting.

His professor smile. “You’re quick to catch on.”

Keith laughed, feeling ridiculous proud of himself for figuring it out.

“Magic feels different to everyone—everyone has a magical footprint. Mine happens to show itself in the way you just experienced,” he went on to say. “Your magic feels different. Some magic plays with the senses—particular ones, or all of them. Did you happen to scent anything different from my magic?”

Keith shook his head, thinking about it. “No, but Allura’s magic tastes like hazelnuts and Lance’s magic tastes like spearmint. Is that what it is?”

“That’s exactly what it is. Magical chefs tend to have taste- and scent-based magic. Because your magic has never accessed your senses in the way ours do, it hasn’t been easily accessible,” he explained. “Though, a hint of it can make certain tasks easier. I imagine you use magic every boxing match, just to level out your opponent. Being able to sense an oncoming target is often a skill, and in some cases, it involves magic when you can’t see them.

“In other words, your magic pushes on you to sense an approaching subject from behind. If you focus just right, or your adrenaline is high, it makes it easier to tell. If that is the case with you, I imagine your magic will evoke touch. Tell me—Allura said her employees told her about your magic. What gave them this idea?”

Keith absently rubbed at his arm, glancing to the side as he said, “I threw someone across the sidewalk. But I mean—I’ve always been able to do that. Tossing people in matches. But if I start using magic daily—do you think that’ll affect what I use in matches?”

“No, it won’t. It’s such an innate part of your routine—you’ll just become more aware of the times you do use it,” he explained.

 _That sounds like more of a distraction than anything_ , Keith thought.

  


  


It was strange, hearing someone knock on their apartment door. Since Pidge was still with Matt over on his campus, it was up to Keith to answer it. He stepped up to the peep hole and squinted through it, and sighed in relief when he realized it was just Lance—but he didn’t recall telling Lance that they were hanging out? Unless… sleeping-texting was a thing. Keith used to sleepwalk all the time, maybe this was a new discovery.

Instead of dwelling on it, or investigating their past conversation, Keith unlocked the door and pulled it open. Lance leaned casually against it, elbow propped up as he knocked twice on the door and said, “Knock knock. Mind if I join you?”

“I—um, I’m not really doing anything…?” Keith said, but stepped aside anyway to let Lance through. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you!” Lance all but shouted, kicking the door shut behind him and holding up a paper bag. “I get that Shiro probably has you on a diet or something—he always glares at you when you eat Coran’s Alfredo but isn’t it _good?_ So I got you some.”

“Thanks,” Keith said, hoping he sounded genuine because he felt sincere about it. It wasn’t often Pidge went out to get him food, so this was a wild turn of events. He took the bag and propped it open, leading the way into the living room. Lance whistled low, and Keith realized—

This was the first time Lance ever set foot in his apartment.

“Oh—um, sorry it’s not real… fancy or anything. And ignore Pidge’s mess. I have a theory that having clutter helps her organize her thoughts better,” Keith said, nudging aside the blankets that tipped off the couch. He disappeared into the kitchen and cleaned off the end of a fork with his fingers. It was clean to begin with—he thought, but just the be sure…

“No need to apologize. Hunk and I always make a mess of things at our apartment, so I don’t mind,” Lance said. Keith turned back around to find him seated atop the table, his hands braced between his legs. He beamed at Keith, and it was so odd to think that any of this could be real. He hadn’t had a guy over in this apartment in _years_. He was so used to it just being Pidge and Keith, Keith and Pidge. 

But now there was… Lance. And he liked the sound of that.

“I need the carbs anyway. I don’t care what Shiro says,” he said, walking up to stand between Lance’s legs. He popped open the top of the togo container and tossed it to the garbage. “I have a match coming up this weekend—s’why Shiro’s so bossy. And also the tournament. That too.”

“What makes him bossy?” Lance asked, hands rubbing Keith’s waist as he picked around the creamy noodles and slurped some into his mouth.

“He doesn’t want me drinking. And I also think he’ll hold a grudge over me for the rest of my life for hitching a ride on Allura’s motorcycle,” he said. 

“But New Years, right? You’re still gonna come?”

“Hell yeah. But if Shiro’s there he’s gonna limit me. Otherwise I would _totally_ get smashed with you and Hunk. Drunk Mario Kart sounds _incredible_ ,” he said between a mouthful of Alfredo. He couldn’t help but scarf it down—Coran’s food sometimes did that to Keith. Lance grinned at him and asked for a bite, so Keith fed him a few noodles.

After swallowing them down, Lance looked back at the living room and said, “So where’s Pidge?”

“With her brother,” he said. “They’ve been hanging out ever since Christmas. That tends to happen—once they stop hanging out they won’t see each other until after finals of next semester.”

Lance grinned at him, and if Keith knew anything about the level of Lance’s smirks, it was that he has more on his mind than just eating Alfredo all day. Keith sucked in his bottom lip, twisting the fork around between the noodles as Lance’s fingers slipped under his red Christmas sweater. 

“You know…” Lance said, head tilting to the side. “I’ve never been here before. It’d really be a shame if I got lost on the way to the bathroom or something. Do you think you could… give me a tour? Show me where your room is?”

Keith scoffed, leaning in and setting the plate behind Lance as he tipped their noses together. “I like the sound of that,” he whispered, smiling wide while trying not to smile at all. Lance made this delicious sound in the back of his throat just before reaching up and pulling Keith’s lips down to meet his.

Their kiss started mild—lips pliant and quietly yielding against one another as Keith slotted his hips between Lance’s and soothed his fingers over the now-exposed skin of Lance’s narrow hips. They tested one another with soft, playful bites on each other’s lips. Lance licked across Keith’s lips and cut between them expertly—in that moment their mild tendencies vanished.

Lance’s breath always smelled like spearmint, regardless of the flavor of gum he chewed, or the food he ate. But Keith loved the taste of it more on his tongue, sticking to his lips and teeth like goddamn candy. That first night they spent together was complete bliss, but now Keith could actually _taste him_ and comprehend the enchanted parts of Lance he overlooked in his needy haze. It was no wonder now, in hindsight, why Keith fell apart so easily the first night.

Lance’s fingertips were laced with magic—their focused nature drawing him in and leaving behind cool, tantalizing paths. His magical fingerprint, as opposed to Professor Kolivan’s term: footprint.

Keith knew Lance wasn’t using it on purpose, but _goddamn_ did it make him feel weak at the knees when Lance drew his cold fingers up Keith’s abdomen, lifting his sweater up and over his head. Keith grabbed the hem of it and tore it aside, pushing against Lance and dipping his fingers to Lance’s Quilted Lion shirt. He unfastened every last button with ease, pulling away only to say—“Pidge would hate me if we had sex on the table.”

“She isn’t around to hate you now,” Lance said, laughing as he shrugged off his shirt and went into kiss Keith again. His lips touched Keith’s jaw—where it used to show up purple and yellow and bruised all over. His lips were cool, with a smooth texture Keith couldn’t bear for a second longer. 

He grabbed Lance’s legs and hooked them around his hips. He hoisted Lance up, stumbling into the living room with his arms around Lance, kissing Lance, moaning into Lance’s mouth without meaning to. It was like he was sleepwalking—one moment they were in the kitchen, and the next falling onto Keith’s bed with hardly a care in the world until—

Keith’s hand instinctively went to his nightstand where he kept the tube of water-based lube and condoms, only to fall on empty wood.

“Shit,” he hissed into Lance’s lips, turning his head to check again. “ _Shit_ , I’m sorry, I just—”

“You don’t have any,” Lance said, lips red and swollen as he sat up a little. “That’s fine, we can just do _other things_ …” he added, grinning boldly as he leaned in to Keith, hands going to his jeans.

Keith cursed again and leant back on his heels, drawing a hand down his face and saying, “Well, it’s not like I’ve _had_ a boyfriend in, like, two years. So I’m not exactly prepared yet.”

Lance hesitated, and Keith turned away, irrationally furious about it. He hated how unprepared he was for any of this. The only things he ever felt prepared for these days involved boxing matches. “Hey—” Lance’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, “—it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Keith tipped his head forward so his forehead fell against Lance’s bony shoulder. Lance’s hands combed through Keith’s hair until he said, “Do you mind if I ask who your last boyfriend was?”

At this, Keith’s chest started to hurt a little. Only Pidge really knew about his ex—his mom was an ass about it so they never really talked about his relationship. But he and Pidge talked minimally about it. The breakup period was stressful and it still grated on both of their nerves. So they just didn’t bring it up.

He breathed in sharply and sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “He was an ass, but I met him at Shiro’s gym after he recruited me. His name was Lotor, but he moved back to Russia about two years ago,” Keith said. 

“Why was he an ass?” Lance asked, leaning back against the wall and curling their fingers together. 

“We just weren’t a good match,” he whispered, looking down at their hands, woven together like threads of yarn. “Pidge hated him. Before Pidge, I lived with him. Since I just moved to NYC and I was only seventeen, Shiro offered to set me up with a place to stay. So I lived with Lotor.”

“How old was he?”

“Like, nineteen. There wasn’t a huge age gap if that’s what you’re thinking,” Keith said, laughing bitterly at the thought. “I mean, for the most part he was nice. We had a lot of fun together. We were always stupidly competitive with each other though, at Shiro’s gym. He’d always get pissed if I outdid him in this or that during training so in that sense he sort of hindered my routine… Shiro recommended I move out, and with Lotor planning on moving back to Russia I had to figure out a new living situation.”

Keith laid between Lance’s legs, cheek against his chest and arms tight around his torso. They were quiet for the moment it took for Keith to start picking up the subtle pulsing of Lance’s heart—gentle and calm and everything consistent. “He almost convinced me to leave with him. I didn’t have enough money though, and I was already living with Pidge.”

“Jesus, really? So you could totally be in Russia right now,” Lance whispered, and Keith hummed, propping his chin up on Lance’s chest. His blue eyes were off across the room, thinking hard about something Keith could see.

“Yeah, well… it wasn’t a healthy relationship and it took a while for me to see that. I wouldn’t have been happy in Russia,” Keith murmured, pressing his lips against Lance’s smooth skin. He laid an open-mouthed kiss there, moving up to Lance’s collarbone, his neck, until they were eye-to-eye. “Sometimes I’d purposefully misplace the condoms so we wouldn’t have sex. Honestly I think it’s still lost—that’s the sort of… I dunno, _phase_ we were in before he left.”

He grew hesitant as he watched Lance’s wide eyes grow, brows puckered and frown quivering before he hide it against Keith’s neck. He squeezed Keith around the waist, and Keith blinked in surprise at the sensation of warm moisture collecting on his skin. “I’m sorry you and Lotor were a thing,” he whispered, voice broken.

Keith couldn’t help himself—he laughed, tucking his head against Lance’s and saying, “It’s not your fault. Just don’t bring him up around Pidge. That’s one way to get her… _really_ pissed. I’m talking full-out Hulk—call upon the wrath of God, all that shit.”

A moment of silence passed before Lance sniffed and said, “No kidding?” with his voice shaking. Keith chuckled, shaking his head against Lance’s hair.

“Yeah, ‘cause Lotor was kinda sexist. He’d make lewd comments at her when I wasn’t around, or just be a general ass with her,” he explained, cringing a little at the memory. “I was there a few times and she’d get pissed at me for not doing anything about it. I was terrible—I’m surprised she didn’t kick me out or something. And she doesn’t deal with crying real well, but she’d stay up at night and helped me through panic attacks and stuff. It was really… bad.

“But I’m better now,” he promised. “Pidge and Shiro helped out a lot.”

Lance hugged him tighter, held him longer, until they were both melancholy and relaxed. Keith reached behind him and nudged the nightstand drawer closed with a sigh. “Sorry for ruining the moment,” he apologized, and Lance shook his head, pulling away and reaching a hand up to rub under his eyes.

Lance’s usually crystal clear eyes were now coated in red blood vessels, and when he smudged away a tear track, Keith felt his throat close up. He reached a hand up and brushed away the other track, and Lance laughed a little. “It’s fine, I don’t mind,” he said, voice stuffy. “I’m just— _really_ empathetic. One of my flaws I guess.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“Really? It gets kind of inconvenient whenever I see roadkill—which… there isn’t a whole lot of here, thankfully. I’d go on road trips across Wisconsin with my family and my sister would cover my eyes whenever she saw dead deer up ahead,” he said, grinning a little as Keith laughed and said something under his breath that he couldn’t quite remember. But Lance added, “Yeah, well… I really shouldn’t be the one getting comforted here.”

“I don’t need comfort,” Keith insisted. “I’m better now.”

“I know, you’re perfect. But if you’re ever feeling not-so-perfect, please tell me? Okay?” he pleaded, meeting Keith’s eyes. How could he say no to that pouty-face?

Keith swallowed hard and nodded, saying, “Sure. And then we can both be not-so-perfect together since you can’t seem to keep your shit together.”

Lance laughed leaning in and kissing Keith gingerly on the lips before pulling back to brush Keith’s heavy black bangs out of the way. “Can we be real for a second? I just want to say something without judgement,” Lance said, and Keith agreed to it. “If you ever don’t want to have sex, just tell me? Don’t go hiding the lube or the condoms or whatever. That’s a real passive-aggressive thing to do.”

“Okay. I won’t hide the lube,” Keith said, laughing at the thought of it. He never wanted to fall back on past habits. Not now, after meeting Lance and having Lance all to himself.

Keith slipped over Lance’s legs and dropped his feet to the floor. He went to retrieve the Alfredo from the kitchen, and meandered back to find Lance right where he left him—shirtless, and all too perfect for him. But Keith was a greedy bastard so he didn’t even care much about whether or not he deserved a guy like Lance. So he settled between Lance’s legs, his back against Lance’s chest, and finished off the Alfredo. The entire time Lance combed his fingers through Keith’s hair while noncommittally scrolling through his phone. 

When Keith finished the food, he set the empty tray on the nightstand and since he was so close, he pressed his lips to Lance’s knee. “Did your family head back to Milwaukee yet?” he asked.

Lance hummed, saying, “Yeah, they left this morning while I was heading to work. My parents have work on Monday and all that. S’why I’m here, ‘cause I don’t want to go back to the apartment ‘cause Hunk isn’t even there right now.”

“Why not?”

“He had plans with so-and-so, and ditched me. My abandonment issues are getting worse,” he whined, curling in to wrap his arms around Keith. “This morning was awful. Everyone was crying.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It’s not! Crying is never fun.”

Keith turned around in Lance’s grasp and pinned him to the bed, leaning over as he said, “Sorry for making you cry earlier.” 

Lance smiled up at him, tantalizing, magical fingertips brushing across Keith’s spine. He resisted the impossibly strong urge to shiver—that would just make Lance smugger than he already was. Lance got that innocent look on his face, like when he suggested Keith give him a goddamn tour of the apartment. “Well… I _might_ forgive you…”

“But what?” Keith said. “What do you want, you heathen?”

Lance giggled, breaking character before abruptly scowling at Keith, expression stone-cold but eyes glistening. “This is serious. I won’t forgive you unless you tell me what you _really_ want from me,” he said, hands gliding down Keith’s sides and hooking at the waist of his pants. Just the simple skim of Lance’s thumbs beneath the hem of his boxers was enough to destroy Keith’s self-control. 

He let go of a strained moan and pushed his lips against Lance’s. Before they could get too far, and before Lance’s fingers could even undo Keith’s belt, he tilted his head and pushed Keith back a little. “And you’ll tell me if you really don’t want to do anything, right?” Lance asked, concern flitting across his features and puckering his brow. 

“Yeah, I already said I would.”

Lance studied him for a second before grinning devilishly and yanking on Keith’s hips. “Well in that case… I don’t think I heard you. What is it that you want?”

  


  


“Keith, did you even hear me come i— _JESUS KEITH PUT A SHIRT ON_!” Pidge’s voice shrieked from the open bedroom door, and Keith practically lunged out of bed, only to trip and roll onto the floor with a groan. “Wait, I’ve already seen you shirtle _ss—LANCE! FOR CHRISSAKE!_ ” 

“I can’t even walk around shirtless here?” Lance whined innocently as Keith chucked his shirt across the room. He caught it and slipped it on while Keith tugged Coran’s Christmas sweater over his head and made sure his pants were back on. They weren’t—but at least he was wearing his boxers. “Sorry Pidge. I didn’t mean to set your virgin eyes on fire with my hot bod.”

“Jesus, Lance,” Keith groaned, laughing under his breath.

Pidge peaked out from between her fingers at them, and Keith jumped a little when an almost identical figure leaned into the open. Only, this version of Pidge happened to be taller, with shorter-cropped hair and thicker-framed glasses. “Hey Keith,” Matt said, offering a casual wave, and then another to Lance. “Hey stranger.”

“Matt, this is Lance, Keith’s boyfriend. Lance, this is my brother Matt,” Pidge said, voice dull and bored and all of the above. Keith stepped aside so Lance could swing his legs off the bed and walk over to shake Matt’s hand. “He also goes to the same university as me,” she added.

“Nice, nice. What are you studying?” Matt asked.

“Astrophysics, but mostly on the engineering side. I haven’t really decided yet,” Lance said, stepping back and glancing at Keith as he explained, “So basically spaceships. I’m in it for the spaceships.”

“And you went to Pidge’s school for that?” Matt commented, smug grin earning him a slap from Pidge. “I’m just saying! Honestly, don’t get so butt-hurt.”

“He doesn’t think magic is relevant in the science field,” Pidge explained to Lance, who rolled his eyes and said that he heard that _plenty_ of times before. “Then what’d you take Allura’s class for?”

“For fun! And also the food—mostly the food,” he said. “I can’t exactly pay for meals or make meals all the time so I work at the café and then I have free reign of the kitchen at the university since Allura gave me access to the room with my card. I got pointers from upperclassmen while I was signing up for classes my freshmen year.”

“Damn, I should’ve done that,” Pidge whined, “But Hunk always gives me the goods now so I’m set. His Homos are incredible.”

“His what?” Matt squeaked, and Keith looked to Lance, surprised enough to burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe he made the Homo sapiens,” Keith said, and Pidge smirked from just beyond the doorway, reaching into a pocket of her backpack and unzipping a plastic baggie of granola bars. He accepted one and took a bite.

“They have the energy of a cup of black coffee,” she explained. “So I grabbed twenty of them.”

“You already built a tolerance to caffeine—it’s not going to do much now,” Matt criticized, but took a bar anyways. Lance shook his head, saying that he already had his fill of caffeine at The Quilted Lion. “Yeah, Pidge mentioned that you’ve got a new job. How is that?” Matt asked, nodding to Keith. 

“It’s fine,” he answered with a shrug, and noted the eye roll from Lance. Like he expected Keith to say it was the greatest job in the universe simply because it happened to be the exact place where he met Lance. “What brings you around here?”

“I was just seeing Pidge home, and figured I should drop in and say hey. Haven’t seen you around much at all,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a small shrug. “I also had to help transport Pidge’s Christmas present.”

Pidge gasped, as if forgetting about it, and ran down the hall to the foyer. Keith raised his eyebrows at Matt, who just looked smug as all hell as he sauntered after his younger sister. Keith followed him, letting Lance link their hands together as they came to a blockade between the foyer and living room. Honestly, how did he _not_ hear them come in, when this was what came with them?

“Holy shit, what’s in there?” Keith gawked, and Pidge squealed in excitement, dragging it in all on pure adrenaline. Matt didn’t even need to help her. The box was probably the height of Pidge, and it width of—wait a minute… “Is that a _TV_?” he gawked, and Matt laughed, slapping his hand on Keith’s back. 

“Hell yeah! My buddy moved out of his apartment for an internship in San Francisco, and he couldn’t transport the TV. So here we are!” Matt said, arms out in that ‘Tada!’ fashion. He stepped forward and grabbed a new box from inside the foyer—they put it on top of the present Shiro got him. It was still unwrapped, and Keith figured since Shiro hadn’t asked about it, he could let it sit for a little while longer. 

“We’ve also got an Xbox One now, so you guys can put that to good use. The basic games are already downloaded—you don’t need the disks. We’ve got Halo, a little bit of _Elder Scrolls_ , and _Minecraft_ , and let’s not forget about Uncharted, or Far Cry,” he went on to say, putting the console box in Keith’s arms. Keith and Lance stared at Matt as if he just ascended from the Heavens to present them with such a holy gift of brohood. 

Lance squealed in excitement, exclaiming that he used to play video games _all the time_ in Milwaukee. “Those were the days when I actually _had_ free time, though,” he admitted as he glided into the living room to help Pidge with the television.

“And I know it’ll be a huge distraction for Pidge, but honestly? Halo _saved me_ all last year. It’s a good way to relieve stress, but try to keep her on task, all right?” Matt said, nudging Keith in the arm. He was still staring at the box in his arms when he managed mumble his agreements. Matt laughed and stepped into the living room where Pidge jabbed a utility knife into the air before ravaging the box with it. 

They cut open the side and slid out the massive screen, followed by the stand. Using Matt’s multitool, they fit the screen onto the stand and positioned it across from the couch. Their living room wasn’t huge, and and the slim screen didn’t take up a whole lot of space. It was perfect.

Keith opened up the box to the console and let Pidge deal with the cords. With just a sweep of her hands, she manipulated the cords underneath the screen, and found the ports with ease. The power cord slithered to one of the outlets on the wall, followed by the television cable, and when Keith freed the Xbox, the HDMI cord jumped into position; the ethernet clicked into place; and the power cable fastened in. 

Lance whistled from the sidelines, amid the bubblewrap and other excess cardboard materials. Keith grinned, saying, “When she gets excited she doesn’t waste time.”

“Apparently,” he laughed. “A few nerds in my classes build robots that way. They just snap their fingers and everything gets put together like _that!_ But I’ve taken a few classes on it and it has a lot to do with brainpower and visualizing things. Like, I get the images in my head but they’re just for a split second and then it all just muddles together.”

“ _Ooh!_ I’m in that class right now,” Pidge said. “We had to build a computer from scratch using it. Keith actually helped me out.”

Keith briefly remembered reading out the instructions, but that was all the input he really gave in terms of that project. Either way, he shrugged as if to agree to it but really, he didn’t consider that much help when it came to building a goddamn computer. 

Lance and Pidge delved into a conversation about what professor she had, the level of homework, such-and-such an assignment that gave Lance so much grief. They laughed about what the professor did the previous week, and Keith smiled faintly at them from the sidelines as he put away the wrapping and was intercepted by a familiar package from the foyer. Matt had it in his hands, and passed it to him. “Did you order something?” he asked.

“No, it’s just… from a friend,” Keith said, eyeing Shiro’s name written in bold sharpie on the brown wrapping. He took Pidge’s utility knife and cut through it. 

He pulled apart the cardboard flaps, only to come across another box. Keith sighed. Shiro did this last year—it was perhaps his favorite pastime, putting boxes inside of boxes. They were all from Amazon, except for the very last one which was wrapped in that dumb brown paper with a note on the top. 

_EVEN IDIOTS NEED PROTECTION. LOVE, NOT-YOUR-COACH._

“Is that from Shiro?” Pidge asked, pointing to the collection of boxes. “I saw that the other day when I came to pick up homework.”

“It is,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the card before setting it aside in favor of tearing through the wrapping. “ _Shit—_ Holy fuck, Shiro,” Keith whined. His entire face went red and he shoved it to the ground, folding the box flaps over the present. He swore at that moment to personally destroy Shiro, body and soul.

He sucked in his bottom lip and held the present away from them. “Well, what is it?” Lance asked, reaching over to snatch the box. Keith held him back by his foot before scrambling up to his feet and running from the room. Pidge whined after him to spill the beans, but Keith was already gone and in his room. He flipped open the present and shook out the box of condoms Shiro gave him, and stuffed it into his shirt drawer. 

The morning of his match, Keith marched into the gym, and hunted Shiro down from across the open space. He stormed over, and in the midst of Shiro saying, “Hey Keith, don’t forget to—” before being cut off by Keith punching him in the arm with as much force has he could muster. Shiro curled into it, cursing. There would definitely be a bruise there.

Keith jabbed a finger against Shiro’s chest and said, “Maybe you should wear armor. You know, for _protection_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who screamed at the part with Lotor.
> 
> Also, who the hell did this in the survey. I am prepared to fight you over this Klance fic abomination lol  
> 


	12. Throw It

“Nothin’ fancy—like last time. You’ve got people watching,” Shiro warned just before opening the car door and ducking out. Keith followed suit, slamming the door shut with his foot. Shiro’s rusty old BMW was still kicking, miraculously enough. They’d been to this venue before—it was a bit higher end in terms of street fights, considering it wasn’t technically in a warehouse. It was hidden between brick and cement buildings, down to a trench under the sidewalk. It reminded Keith of a few of the places Shiro tended to frequent—whether it be underground clubs or drug warehouses. 

Shiro kept a hand over Keith’s shoulders as they entered through the heavy metal door. It creaked shut behind them, and they were met with the line of people waiting to enter the makeshift arena. “I’m surprised you got me a fight here again, huh?” Keith said to Shiro as they skimmed past the crowd. Keith kept his hood up and avoided making eye contact—he left that for Shiro when they finally approached the guard that would escort them to meet up with the ref. 

In the back room, away from the crowd and the ring, Keith dropped his workout bag onto a bench and cracked his knuckles while Shiro walked off to meet with some folks from other gyms—one of them was probably the coach of the other contender. He watched them from afar as he unraveled his jumprope and set to work.

Several minutes into his warmup, Shiro came back and tugged Keith’s earbuds out. “Change of plans,” he said, quiet so as to avoid attention. “Come with me. Bring your stuff.”

Keith had no plans on arguing with the man—Shiro always knew what he was doing, especially when it came to street boxing and matches like this. Though, he couldn’t pass up the adrenaline that shot through his system at the sound of the plan changing. He was denied his usual, “fancy” techniques for weeks now. Perhaps now he’d be able to go full force? The thought thrilled him as he followed Shiro out of the room and to the dingy restroom. 

Shiro checked the few stalls in there before stepping back over to Keith. “What is it? You want me to change the technique?” Keith asked, secretly hoping Shiro would bend towards it. Straights and jabs were mediocre when it came to Keith’s style of fighting, and yet Shiro was forcing him to do it anyways.

His coach waved his hand, silencing Keith. “You’re not gonna like what I have to say. But… something came up.”

“What do you mean by ‘something’,” Keith said, putting air-quotes around it in a flourish of irritation. “Does it have something to do with me staying low?”

“Kind of. It’ll help with that, but hear me out—the other contender’s a bit of a hotshot. Have you heard of Zarkon before?” he said, and Keith nodded. He read over the roster with Nyma enough times to know the name—and the fact that Zarkon’s happened to be one of the bigger names, along side Knyaz. Nyma spent days trying to track them down, among other names, and came up empty. For the most part, they were under the radar when it came to matches prior to the tournament. 

The fact that Keith’s opponent was Zarkon said a lot about why the crowd happened to be massive tonight.

“Most of the bets are on him—so either way you won’t be winning much if you _do_ win,” Shiro said, reaching into the pocket within his leather jacket. “His manager, Haggar, paid me in advance to throw the match. If you let Zarkon win, you’ll get nine hundred tonight, not even including the venue’s cut and already excluding my share,” he said, unveiling a wad of fifties from his pocket.

Keith stared at the money with what could have been a hungry, desperate stare had his brain not registered what it meant to take it. His winning streak would end here. He’d purposefully take a beating for the sake of half his entire rent—

He kept his hands in his pockets as he looked Shiro in the eye. The man looked like he was in pain, watching Keith debate over it. Keith sucked in a deep breath of the smoke-tinted air and took the money from Shiro’s hand, stuffing it into his duffle.

“I’ll just start my winning streak over during the tournament,” he said. 

Shiro laughed lightly, like he couldn’t quite let it out as he pulled Keith in with a hand in his hair. “Sounds like a plan to me. Did you ask off work for this weekend? Good—I doubt you’ll be able to move much after this.”

Keith laughed, realizing that the prospect of being in pain didn’t bother him as much as the prospect of purposefully losing did.

They left the restroom and Shiro helped him prepare for the match. He wrapped Keith’s hands deliberately, and with expert speed that only came with wrapping hundreds of other hands. Keith was all too aware of the calluses on his knuckles and palms, and their reddish hue from using the speed bag earlier in practice. It was odd that Keith felt so awful about losing before it even happened. He hadn’t gotten paid to lose a fight since he was a beginner—before Shiro took him on. Back then he was just desperate for notice, and for the money to live in NYC after his mom retracted her funds. Dropping out of college wasn’t exactly his mom’s idea of making ends meet in life.

But it wasn’t like she ever followed the rules she instilled in Keith.

Shiro tugged Keith’s hood back up and slipped Keith’s duffle over his own shoulders. He clapped Keith on the back and pushed him forward, out into the open where he could hear the constant thunder of the spectators chanting their names. Keith’s focus went hazy as he purposefully heard Zarkon’s name above his own.

This particular sports arena was different in the sense that the ring was below the onlookers, dipped into a fair-sized square with enough room for the refs, the coaches, and the healers—the “nurses” who could repair intense injuries using magic. Once Keith suffered from a concussion after a knockout, and was fixed up by the turf healer. The only downfall to being healed by one was that he had to cough up a portion of his winnings to pay for it. For the tournament he and Shiro would have to take those matters into account.

Keith shed his sweatshirt and handed it to Shiro as the ref called him and the other contender up to the middle of the mat. Keith’s eyes instantly went to the man Nyma spent so much time trying to track down. This was the man everyone was cheering for. This was the man who was going to take Keith’s winning streak from him.

They were both shirtless and sporting heavily-wrapped fists, and equally calculating in their attempt to size one another up. Zarkon was easily a foot taller than Keith, with a heavy square jaw, and a nose crooked from a poor realignment. His hulking trapezius made his shoulders look broader than normal, pecs heavy and defined, and chest gravitating down to narrow hips and bulky calves. He looked more like a body builder than Keith could ever hope to be. Standing next to Zarkon made Keith feel more and more like he had the body of a runner, not a fighter.

Just before the ref began laying down the rules, Zarkon’s lips split into a cocky grin, displaying his sharp canines and white teeth around darkened skin. Keith all but seethed at the sight, stretching his fingers out at his sides just to keep from throttling Zarkon.

The ref drew their hands together and started the match.

They barely stepped out of the sequence when Keith instinctively reacted, just barely dodging an uppercut he didn’t see coming. He ducked back, Zarkon’s fist swiping through the air over his eyes. He barely took a step before his vision blurred, head tossed to the side under the impact of a fist ramming into his cheek.

Keith staggered, fists raised and blocking an oncoming hit to the side. His habitual fighting style came back, and he rammed into the opening Zarkon left at his torso. He barely made a dent, and didn’t even cause Zarkon to so much as stutter when it came to backhanding Keith across the face.

The force of it was reminiscent of a blow Keith would inflict—he lost his footing almost instantly, and rolled across the mat. He hit the concrete and rolled up, dizzy and vision skewing as he dodged an incoming attack. 

Zarkon’s footwork was incredible. He could take on Keith from one side of the mat to the other, but this particular match went entirely to the wall where Zarkon slammed him up against it. He hammered Keith two—three times before Keith stumbled to the side, managing to slam his fist into the side of Zarkon’s face with a burst of pain rocketing through his wrist—he was weak enough as it was after having his head thoroughly rattled.

Something wet doused over them from overhead—beer, Keith realized, and took hold of the moment of confusion to slam his fist as hard as possible in an upward cut. Its aim was deadly, and sent Zarkon staggering back against the wall. 

Keith’s hands were on fire from the hits, but they were too close to the wall for Keith to even consider landing a decent kick. Instead, he shimmied away from the wall, noticing the ref and the female coach, Haggar, scatter from around him as Zarkon recovered, bolting up to him as if all it took was one stride to cross the entirity of the playing field.

Keith’s dodges were getting sluggish—he fell hard at the contact of Zarkon’s foot knocking the wind out of his chest. He coughed against the mat, sputtering up blood and rising only to be kicked _hard_ in the stomach.

 _The whistle went off_.

“ _Foul!_ Point deduction!” the referee shouted as Keith wheezed on the mat, getting up only when someone was able to grab him by the arm and haul him to his corner. 

He stumbled on his feet, gasping as he realized Shiro was trying to talk to him. Shiro grabbed him by the side of the head and shook him. “Keith—Keith, listen to me. The round’s almost up. You drop now or you drop the next I’m not letting you stick it out to a third, you understand me?”

“He kicked me while I was down,” Keith sputtered out, around his mouthguard. His cheeks felt fat, but perhaps that was because his eyes were swelling.

“I know—but the ref’s got you covered. He can’t kick you again.” Shiro clapped his other hand onto Keith’s head, forcing him to focus. “And what did I say about the big guns, huh? No uppercuts, nothin’ fancy. Got it?”

Keith nodded, pressing his fingers to his mouthguard before Shiro spiraled him back into the game. The ref drew them in again, and the second the ref restarted the bout, Keith was prepared. 

He felt invincible all over again.

He met Zarkon head-on with a swift dodge followed by a quick jump to the air, twisting and landing a blow to his cheek. The force of it sent Zarkon staggering, and the crowd roaring in his eardrums like the blood pounding inside his skull. Zarkon came at him with fists flying, hammering into Keith’s bruised forearms and pummeling him down against the concrete wall. He felt the splash of someone’s beverage falling over them in the haze of spectators reaching over the railing to see.

Keith ducked down, suffering a hit to the stomach before he was able to bring Zarkon back to the middle, and get him in the open again. His eyes were starting to black out around the edges, where his skin swelled over his eyelashes. Moisture collected like in a damp sheen across his forehead, and the stray bits of hair that he couldn’t pull back into a ponytail. Zarkon’s heavy black hair whisked with him when he rushed in and clobbered Keith across the jaw—a blow like that could easily break a hand, but Zarkon came out with only bruises.

Keith’s jaw exploded in pain, and in the next second his head hit the mat and bounced off. He groaned against the floor, pushing himself onto his elbows. Suddenly all the weight in his arms seemed to register in his legs—he couldn’t fucking move. He couldn’t fucking _do it_ —

—He pushed harder, grunting with the effort and wishing he could just _scream_. He heaved himself to his feet, and before Zarkon could even lay down a hit, the referee blew the whistle. 

Keith swayed in the center of the mat, facing Zarkon as they both seemed to hesitate at the meaning of the whistle. The round was done—but they weren’t finished yet.

Zarkon spat onto the mat, partially towards Keith before shrugging off and heading over to his manager. Keith studied him for a second longer, wondering why he was seeing two of Zarkon. He swayed over to Shiro, who grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to drink water. It all just sort of dribbled over Keith’s mouth and chin, and spread cool liquid across his chest. Shiro kept saying this or that but Keith wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were on Zarkon from across the ring.

Keith heard his name in the crowd, but he was too focused to pay attention to the people watching. He stepped onto the mat when the ref called them forward, and the game was back on. 

Keith knew he had to get his hits in early—the rest of the round depended on him sticking it out and taking the hits. He hammered punch after punch into Zarkon’s braced forearms until the pain of hitting hard bone became too much for Keith. He dodged a hit, only to take a knee to the stomach, and the sensation of two arms going around his middle.

And suddenly, Keith was flying. 

It was like every other time Keith tossed his opponent across the ring—except this time, he hit solid concrete and went down without getting up. The count was happening—he had to move—he didn’t give a shit what Shiro said about only sticking it out to the second round. 

He pushed himself up onto one knee, and dragged himself up, swaying, but fast-paced as soon as Zarkon was on him again. He dodged several more hits, blocked others until he was certain his ulnas would snap in two. Zarkon took him down again with a hit that could have been an uppercut, but Keith always kept his chin down, eyes up. Instead, he slammed his fist into Keith’s chest, and sent him sprawling across the ground.

Keith didn’t want to think he wasn’t trying his best, but if this was his best, how could he possibly hope to destroy Zarkon in the tournament?

He heaved, breath coming in sharp pants as he laid on the ground, eyes wild. He could _feel_ Shiro’s desire to have him _stay down_. 

A thin line of bloody saliva stuck to the mat as Keith drew his head off the ground. It weight a thousand pounds, plus an extra ton when his arms came off the ground, followed by his knees. He was always good at taking a hit, and Professor Kolivan was starting to teach him why that was. He was always good at delivering powerful blows. 

But now he knew why. 

His visioned blurred under the impact of Zarkon’s fist smashing across his nose. A spray of blood went with it, but Keith stayed grounded like he did on the ice. He braced himself, and on Zarkon’s retraction of his arm, Keith went in and crashed his knuckles into Zarkon’s face, thrusting him to the ground in an instant. 

Keith wasn’t sure if the crowd went quiet, or it was simply blown out by the pounding of the blood in his ears. It took a moment for Zarkon to even recover, but by the time he was on his feet, the ref called the round. Keith was seething on the mat, breathing hard, shoulders heaving, and had to be taken off by Shiro.

“I fucking told you I wouldn’t let you go to the third round,” Shiro hissed at him. “You don’t drop now, you don’t get the cut, do you understand me?”

Keith muttered something around his mouthguard, not quite focusing on Shiro until he grabbed Keith by both sides of the head. “ _Do you understand me?_ ” he demanded, rattling Keith’s skull.

“Yes,” he croaked out. Shiro clapped him on the shoulders then and forced him to chug some water.

  


  


Keith went down in the third round not because Shiro told him, but because he couldn’t move. Zarkon officially knocked him out and he didn’t wake up until Shiro was down on the ground next to him, patting his bloody bruised cheeks. 

“You did good kid, you did good,” he was saying, but his voice was all hollowed out and echoing like they were suddenly in this huge dark cave that was closing on on the corners of Keith’s eyes. He closed his eyes and groaned, putting a swollen hand over his swollen eye and then his swollen, split lips. Shiro helped him up, steadying him against his shoulder. Keith only felt slightly better knowing that Zarkon wasn’t any better off.

They shook hands, and Keith was finally able to grasp that the man’s knuckles were cracked and swollen beneath the gauze. He was too out of it to actually look Zarkon on the eye, but there were bruises across his ribs where Keith’s dominant hand laid a few solid hits. 

“Good match. See you in the tournament, Kogane,” Zarkon said, and it happened to be the first time Keith ever heard him talk. His voice was a deep pitch, husky—probably from smoking—with a quality about it that could probably project across the entire arena. 

Keith agreed to the date and limped with Shiro off the mat and to the back room. 

Keith dropped his arm from Shiro’s shoulder and walked across the room to the bench. He hunkered down and put his hands in his hair, leaning over his knees despite how much it made his ribs ache to do so. His eyes were watering uncontrollably—that tended to happen with bad black eyes. But he still couldn’t believe how it was even possible to lose a match that he gave his all at, regardless of what Shiro wanted him to do.

Shiro refilled his water bottle and came back over. Keith ripped out his mouthguard and practically tossed it to the ground. He sniffled and said, “Sorry for taking so long out there.”

“I didn’t expect anything less. You did good,” he said, rubbing a hand over Keith’s back as he doused his entire face in water before taking a drink. He tasted pennies in his mouth.

They were quiet for the moment it took to hear someone shouting outside the room, “Fuckin’ let me in! I _know_ him—he’s my boyfriend!”

 _Shit_.

Keith glanced at Shiro, he stood up straighter to glare at the door. He looked down at Keith, who looked just as horrified as he did. Eventually, Shiro set his expression to stone and went over to the door, intercepting the guard who was threatening to toss Lance out of the facility.

“Hey, hey, it’s cool. They can come in,” Shiro told the guard. Keith didn’t turn around to see the guard look skeptically at the college kids standing outside his door, and then back at Shiro. In the end, though, they came in, and Keith glanced at them briefly to see that it was just Nyma, Pidge, and Lance. Either way he was impressed that they even survived the crowd, and then the security coming back this far.

“Holy shit—” Pidge squeaked as Keith turned away and discretely put a hand over his face, as if that would hide any of it. It definitely wouldn’t mask the fact that Keith’s entire abdomen was speckled in bruises. 

“Why would you let them _in_ , Nyma?” Keith demanded, voice stuffy. His nose was still in absolute agony. “ _Ow_ —Okay, I think I need you to reset my nose, Shiro.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and suddenly both Pidge and Lance were in front of him instead of Shiro. He turned away from them, because he could see Lance’s eyes getting all watery, with his hands over his mouth. Pidge just looked horrified as she said, “Yeah, it was a good thing Hunk bailed on us.”

Nyma hopped onto the bench next to Keith, straddling it as she gestured for him to face her. He shut his eyes and winced as her fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose. She cracked it into place, and Lance gagged at the sound. Keith cursed under his breath, eyes watering profusely until Shiro unzipped his duffle and yanked out one of his gym towels. He pressed it over his face and sighed into it. It felt so cool and nice. 

“That was a rough match. I came as soon as I heard who you were going against,” Nyma said, whistling low. “That guy’s gonna be tough.”

“No kidding,” Keith huffed, taking a few tissues from his bag and holding them to his nostrils. “Did you see he kicked me when I was down?”

“Haggar sometimes pays off the ref to ignore illegal kicks,” Shiro explained. “I wasn’t entirely surprised he tried it on you, so I talked to the ref beforehand to ensure he wasn’t paid off.”

“A little warning about that might be nice next time,” Keith huffed. He shifted back to face Lance and Pidge, leaning over his knees and wishing this incessant throbbing over his eyes would stop for once. 

“Do you… You don’t work tomorrow, do you?” Lance whispered. “Because there’s no way concealer is going to cover that up.”

Keith scoffed and shook his head. “No, I don’t work tomorrow or Sunday. I should be okay for New Years.”

“You aren’t partying,” Shiro interjected. “No drinking, no staying up stupidly late—you need your rest.”

Keith would have argued, had he not felt like complete shit as it was. Instead, as Lance sat beside him with an arm around his shoulders, he said, “Aw, but I’m throwing a party with Coran and Allura! I was gonna invite you too, but Keith said you were a stickler about drinking so I figured best not, huh? Oh well, we always have so much fun on New Year’s. Coran and Allura are _really_ good at drunk karaoke…”

Lance sighed wistfully, and Keith could see Pidge snickering from the sidelines as they waited for Shiro’s reaction. Keith couldn’t really see, so Nyma leaned over and whispered, “You can _so_ see he’s regretting everything in life.”

Shiro suddenly narrowed his eyes at Keith and Lance and said, “Keith can only drink a little while I’m there, or not at all.”

“You’re so self-sacrificing! Coming for Keith’s safety and all. Allura loves a real family guy, you know? She’ll be thrilled to hear about it,” Lance said dreamily, leaning into Keith so he could feel the coolness radiating from his skin. Pidge laughed, playfully bumping hips with Shiro, who looked like he was regretting everything, including agreeing to go to Lance’s party.

They left after Shiro’s chat with the ref and the bookie. They always waited until everyone was gone before talking to the bookie. Shiro offered them all a ride, since he didn’t want Keith walking anywhere in the state he as in. He promised to get one of his good friends—a healer—into the gym the following day, to take a look at Keith’s bruised ribs so they’d be better by the tournament. Until then, Keith was stuck with saran wrap around his ribcage just to be certain nothing was out of place.

Nyma came up to the apartment with them on a promise to Shiro to ensure that Keith took care of his wounds. Lance went up as well after asking Pidge if it was okay that he stayed the night with them. She was fine with it, and that just seemed to make Keith’s entire day. Even if he couldn’t win a match against Zarkon, at least he got to spend the night curled up in Lance’s arms to mope about it.

Nyma stayed for as long as it took for the swelling in Keith’s hands to die down enough after dousing them in an ice bath. She cleaned up his bloody lips and used the first aid kit to patch the skin that split by his eye. She slapped a Vicodin pill into his hand before leaving. “Don’t worry about it—I nabbed it from my mom’s stash.”

“ _Nyma_ , I can’t take this,” he complained, but she blew him a kiss and was out the door, calling behind her, “Thanks for letting me hang out! It’s been real fun!”

Keith growled under his breath as she left, but dropped the pill onto his tongue anyway and swallowed it without water. Lance was leaning against the cracked plaster in the hallway when Keith finally turned back around to head to bed. He hesitated, nearly forgetting that Lance was hanging around in the apartment for the night. 

Pidge already went to bed after being assured that Nyma could take care of Keith properly. The lights in the apartment were off, and the only thing illuminating the hallway happened to be the streetlights outside the window. They filtered between the window frames and highlighted Lance’s concern in blue. “You all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine now. I’ll be worse tomorrow though,” he confessed, breathing in stiffly and placing a hand over his torso as he meandered into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed; the tension behind his eyes was starting to make them water again. Lance ducked down between his legs and kissed his bruised knuckles. “Sorry you have to see me like this,” he whispered.

“It’s fine. Well, I mean, it’s _not_ fine, but I don’t mind,” Lance said, rubbing his cool fingers across Keith’s hands before reaching for the ice pack Nyma left on the nightstand. He insisted Keith hold it to his eye. 

He helped Keith lay down straight before crawling over and settling between Keith and the wall. He gingerly rubbed a hand over Keith’s bruised side before settling on his hip and kissing Keith’s bare shoulder. Keith closed his eyes because it just hurt to keep them open. Bloody saliva collected on the inside of his cheek. He sucked it in and cleared his throat.

“Shiro wanted me to throw the match,” Keith whispered, and Lance hummed quizzically. “I was paid to lose.”

“That’s no fair.”

“I know, but it’s not like we’re a bunch of kids in gym class,” Keith huffed, licking across his split, puffy lip before continuing. “That’s the first match I’ve lost in a long time.”

Lance’s lips pressed against the flesh of Keith’s shoulder blade, his smooth, calculated fingers relieving Keith of the swollen heat of his bruised forearms. He sighed in contentment, softly telling Lance that he could keep his hands there all night and Keith wouldn’t give a shit. Lance laughed lightly against his shoulder, shimmying closer so he could wrap his arms more effectively around Keith.

He fell asleep in pain, but at least his faint, drug-induced haze was able to convince him that Lance was the one curing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Coming up next, on "How Badly Can Keith Fuck Up His Face".
> 
> Also I just realized after writing a two-page long fight scene that I'm gonna have to figure shit out for the actual tournament. I have NO PLANS on writing two-page long matches like ARE YOU KIDDING ME. THIS ISN'T GONNA BE _Haikyuu_ ALL RIGHT?
> 
> Chat with me on [Tumblr](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/) if it so pleases you! :)


	13. Rainbow Road

Keith sucked in his breath as Lance wrapped non-adhesive gauze around his forearms, strapping on icepacks. Those bruises wouldn’t be going away anytime soon, unless Shiro’s friend was able to fix them. Lance glimpsed up at Keith at the sound of him retracting his shaky breath, and proceeded to go about the process slowly and deliberately.

As they ended on his hands, Lance laid an obnoxiously loud kiss to his fingers. “ _Muah_ , there you go,” he said, smiling despite the fact that it was probably harder to look Keith in the face during the daytime. At least at night it was harder to see his gnarled face.

“Thanks,” he said, wishing he could smile without splitting the scabs on his lips. “Are you sure you want to come with me to see the healer? I mean, I can still _walk_ you know.”

“Are you kidding? You’ve been limping everywhere! Pidge, tell him,” Lance demanded, gesturing sharply to Keith as he looked to where Pidge was sitting, enraptured by the dragon on the screen.

“Keith, you’re an idiot.”

“See—Wait, no, that’s not what I was going for. _Pidge_ …” Lance whined, but she flipped him off before cursing, hands flying back to her controller as the sound of a dragon roaring came through the speakers. Lance sighed, staring semi-dreamily at the screen. “I _really_ want to play… She hasn’t let me play _once_ this morning…”

“That’s because I just started the game! I don’t want you to throw off the storyline,” Pidge argued.

Keith made a soft noise in the back of his throat, simply because he couldn’t really smile. He woke up late in the morning—later than usual, anyway—which led to Lance getting up early only to find that Pidge had been playing _Elder Scrolls_ since the crack of dawn. When Keith woke up to an empty bed, he wandered into the living room in a drunken-like state, relieved to find that Lance hadn’t left yet and was simply watching Pidge play _Elder Scrolls: Skyrim_. 

“I won’t throw off the storyline, I promise! You can make all the dialogue decisions,” Lance whined, begging. Pidge was immune to his pouty-face, though and merely scowled at him before turning back to the battle with the beast.

Keith pushed himself off the ground with a huff, grunting when it felt like someone was stabbing him in the side. He knew the feeling well enough to know that Shiro’s healer friend would be doing some _serious_ readjustments. Lance helped him up and into his coat, and even went so far as to tie Keith’s shoes for him. He stood, bundled up in the foyer, and watched as Pidge made faces at him from the living room. He flipped her off, aware that one of his ice packs was showing through his jacket sleeve along with the gauze.

Lance bundled himself up and tugged on his beanie before wrapping Keith up in his striped scarf. “I hope you don’t mind me basically stealing your scarf,” Keith said.

“I gave it to you! Don’t even worry about it,” he replied, smiling sweetly as he pressed his lips to the side of Keith’s head. “Bye Pidge! I’ll see you around later!” he called out, waving frantically at her until she finally looked away from the television. 

“See you later, nerd.”

“Not nice,” Keith mumbled into the knitted fabric of his scarf.

“But it’s true. Let’s go!” Lance said, hustling out the door and guiding Keith along with him.

Lance forced him to wear gloves before they came anywhere near the exit door. They stepped out onto the street, and with the cold and the pain in Keith’s jaw, Lance did all the talking. He talked the entire way to the gym—he talked about his professors, what Hunk did on such-and-such a day, and even went so far as to delve into a wild backstory about how he and Hunk used to adventure around the wilderness throughout their summers, and build crazy awesome forts in the forest. If they weren’t doing that, they were playing video games until Lance’s mom told them they needed some fresh air.

“We used to go swimming _all the time_. My grandma has a pool and if you think _my_ skin is dark, her’s is like _leather_. She spends all her time floating around in one of those floaties in the summer. That or gardening. She has a crazy awesome garden in the summer. There’s always butterflies there and humming birds…” Lance sighed nostalgically, leaning into Keith’s shoulder. 

“Do you miss Wisconsin?” Keith asked.

“Hell yeah. I miss it all the time. I lived in one of Milwaukee’s suburbs, so it wasn’t like we had cornfields or anything, but… it was greener. And it smelled a bit nicer. I used to be a lifeguard, though, so over the summers all I smelled was Lake Michigan. You know the sewers here smell like Lake Michigan?” he asked, and Keith shook his head. He had no idea—though, it sounded oddly familiar, like Lance said it before. 

“But yeah, I used to be a lifeguard at Bradford Beach. It’s, like… your cliche beach-scene in a teen movie like _Princess Diaries_ or something, and on really hot summer days _everyone_ is there. It _really_ fills up, you know? And it was _great_ because all the college kids would come down every day of the week and cute girls would flirt with me just ‘cause I was the lifeguard and had a wicked awesome tan going on…

“I miss Milwaukee,” Lance said, ending with a sad sigh this time. “I miss being hit on by cute girls.”

“Wow, okay. Let me just change my _gender_ real quick to appease your home-sickness,” Keith mumbled, sarcastic but incredibly bitter. Lance broke out of his sad-mood and stifled a laugh. 

“No, you don’t have to. You look cute, even when you look like Thor clobbered you with his crowbar.”

“ _Are you kidding me?_ ” Keith shrieked, completely bypassing the fact that he split open his lip again yelling it. “It’s _Thor’s Hammer_ —what kind of amateur are you?!” 

Lance snickered, only to gasp and hold his hand up to Keith’s mouth. “Oh no! Your lip is bleeding again.”

“Why did you pick a crowbar out of all weapons?! This is basic Norse mythology!” he cried out, swatting away Lance’s hand. 

“I really like crowbars, okay? I think it’d be a decent weapon during the apocalypse—”

“How can you call yourself a Marvel fan if you don’t even know it’s Thor’s Hammer?” Keith whined, throwing his head back and groaning. “ _Why am I dating you?_ ”

Lance gasped, laugher fizzling out to a low whine as he said, “Don’t _say that!_ I didn’t mean it! I knew it was Thor’s Hammer—I promise! Don’t leave me—my abandonment issues Keith! _Abandonment issues!_ ” He hugged Keith’s arm and didn’t let go no matter how much Keith tried to pull away. Eventually he gave up and let Lance cling to him like his life depended on it—at least until they reached the gym.

Keith limped down the steps to the back door of the gym, and led Lance down the orange-lit hallway. He briefly noted the posters stapled to the walls displaying Zarkon’s name on the tournament poster, but didn’t waste his time surveying something he already spent hours looking at before.

The gym itself was doused in morning light streaming in from the street windows. Keith pointedly avoided facing all the guys working out, knowing that word was already up and about when it came to Keith’s fight with Zarkon. Some of them tended to make an effort to congratulate Keith on his wins, so he didn’t want to find out what they would have to say about his loss. It’d been too long since he had to endure that.

With his hand still linked with Lance’s, he hurried up the stairs to Shiro’s office. At the door, Keith didn’t even bother knocking and stepped right in, pulling Lance along with him.

“Knock knock, it’s me,” Keith said, not even halting at the sight of a girl perched on top of Shiro’s desk. He wasn’t entirely surprised by anything he stumbled into with Shiro anyway—at least this time he could tell instantly that this happened to be the healer friend Shiro talked about.

Shiro was leaning up against one of the chairs in his office when Keith barged in. He stood up straighter, and noted that Lance came in with Keith. “Keith—I wasn’t expecting you for another hour. You should still be resting,” Shiro said.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to do that with all this going on,” he said, gesturing to his bruised and battered face. He glanced at the girl, who hopped off the desk with a light jump and clasped her hands in front of her. She wore a modest-looking dress with bright purple leggings, a yellow coat, and a heavy-looking satchel. Overall, she had the aesthetic of a kindergartener. “Shay, right?” Keith said, stepping up to shake her hand.

“I’m surprised you remembered! How are you feeling? Don’t hold back on me—tell me where you hurt the most,” she said, bringing her hands up then to help him with his jacket. 

Lance took the coat and said, “His ribs have been hurting the most. He mumbled about it in his sleep last night.”

“Okay—Shiro said he figured as much,” Shay commented, glancing at their boss. Shiro nodded from the sidelines, taking a seat in one of the chairs. He lifted his ankle up to rest on his knee, and watched as Shay and Lance discarded Keith’s shirt and undid the saran wrap.

Keith’s chest was bruising, and it spread across his ribs and sides. He sucked in his breath as Shay laid her hands over the red markings before stepping back and unlooping her satchel from his shoulders. “It’s just bruising, nothing cracked or broken. You’re lucky you didn’t dislocate anything this time around.”

“You remember that?” Keith said, wincing after having to hold his arms up for so long. She asked if she could unwrap the icepacks on his arms, so they took those away for her to see the bruising from Zarkon’s knuckles. 

“Of course I remember. Most fellas I’ve repaired dislocated or broken ribs for tear up or bawl their eyes out. You’ve got guts, kid,” she said, snapping on a pair of medical gloves from her satchel and ordering him to lie on the floor. 

She patched Keith up in a matter of twenty minutes. She healed the bruises on his arms and ribs, but his face was a bit trickier to deal with—usually, professional doctors and surgeons dealt with facial injuries, but Shay was just your average ER nurse on the week days. Lance asked as much about her, and she happily shared her schooling experience with them, and how she met Shiro.

“I met him back when he was still in the game. He came in with—what was it? It has something to do with completely shattering your nasal septum. I wouldn’t even call it a fracture at that point—and you said you didn’t want plastic surgery to clean it up, and now I know why,” she said, grinning up at Shiro who looked far less enthusiastic about the story than she was. The heavy scar on his crooked nose was proof of it.

“It works now, though, doesn’t it? It took so long for it to heal, though, so I retired from boxing,” he explained, resting his temple against his hand. “And after it _did_ heal, I was nervous about breaking it like that again.”

“And I would have been pissed to see you at the ER again—you realize it takes _effort_ to clean up a nose like that?” she remarked, bracing her hands on her hips. Keith pushed himself up off the ground, grunting at the sore, heavy feeling in his chest. She repaired the damage, but there were always side effects. She couldn’t get rid of how sore the wound was now. 

Shiro rolled his eyes before making eye contact with Keith. He shifted to the side, making an effort to stand. Lance grabbed him by the hand and helped ease him up off the ground. “Rest today. Don’t come in until Tuesday.”

“But—” Keith started, only to fizzle into angry silence under Shiro’s critical gaze. “Fine. I’ll come in on Tuesday.” Keith hated their agreement—he was hoping to be able to come in on Monday before heading to the Quilted Lion for the long week ahead.

But then he remembered what tomorrow was. The 31st of December. 

The Quilted Lion wasn’t even _open_ on Monday. And it was probably for the better, considering all the hype Lance and Hunk have been creating over the Big New Year’s Bash.

 _Shit_.

“Is there anything you can give me for the swelling?” Keith asked Shay, pressing a hand to his eye. “Or maybe my split lip? Because Coran and Allura—”

“Oh shit, you’re right,” Lance gasped, looking to an uneasy Shay as she gave a tense sigh. 

“I mean… I have a few temporary methods, but swelling is the body’s natural process of healing. It’s essentially excess blood under the skin. I’m not an expert when it comes to absorbing blood into your tissues,” she confessed, and Lance made a sickened sound in the back of his throat at the prospect of sucking blood out of Keith’s face. Of course, that wasn’t what Shay was suggesting, but that was exactly how Keith and Lance visualized it. 

“Either way Keith should be resting—he shouldn’t even _be_ at a fucking New Year’s party,” Shiro remarked, and Lance gasped in horror, clutching a hand to his chest.

“No way! If Keith doesn’t go, you can’t come. I’m puttin’ that out there right here right now,” he said, slapping his hands together as if he just came up with the ultimate plan. And if Lance had been better acquainted with Shiro, Keith was almost positive Shiro would have bit out, “Fuck you.” At least, that was what his expression said upon Lance’s exclamation.

“What’s the best way to fix his damn face, even if it is temporary,” Shiro demanded sharply, pegging them all with a deadly glare. Keith snickered at him as Shay let out a nervous laugh and went for her satchel.

“Um… well, we could reduce the swelling for a few hours at a time. But unless any of you three use magic, then it isn’t exactly permanent,” she said. “It’s best just to let it heal on its own—”

“I use magic,” Lance said. “I’ve never done anything medicinally with it… but I wouldn’t mind trying?”

“Though, if you mess up the process, you could rupture a blood vessel or cause permanent scarring,” she said, and instantly Lance paled at the thought. He shared a look with Keith, who, for the most part, was indifferent about the prospect of bursting a blood vessel and causing permanent scarring. He shrugged, and Lance’s previously injured expression came back with a gasp and a hand over his heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you though!” Lance complained. “What about the cut on his lip?”

“I can see what I can do,” she said, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt.

  


  


“You remember what Shay taught you, right?” Keith asked, calm as ever. He could see Lance’s ears go red, the moisture on his forehead hard for Keith to ignore. 

They were in Lance and Hunk’s shared bathroom, straddling the bathtub ledge facing one another. Lance had the note paper spread out between them—it was wrinkled since he tore it from one of Shiro’s notepads, folded it, and stuffed it into his trench coat pocket. It had instructions on it that Keith couldn’t quite understand yet. The whole mind space of people who used magic was a bit different from what Keith was used to. Professor Kolivan was still working on that with him. 

Lance scratched behind his ear before picking up the paper again and nodding. “Okay. Yeah, I think so.”

“Whatever. I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Keith said, settling in and closing his eyes. Even after Shay took care of Keith’s black eyes, he could still feel the pulsing under his skin. In fact, it felt worse, but at least the bruising wasn’t visible. It gave him the impression of muscle spasms—like, where his eyelid would twitch randomly for a few minutes, or a muscle in his arm, his neck, his lip—but it was all over his eyes and nose and jaw. 

At least his lip was healed now, but the bruising was already back. Lance and Keith decided to redo the “magic” before Coran and Allura showed up. Hunk was hiding in the living room to avoid seeing Keith’s face while Shiro leant against the open doorway, Pidge hiding behind him. She seemed to be terrified of seeing the process, or perhaps seeing Lance fuck up miserably.

Keith scrunched his eyes shut as he felt Lance’s hand splay across his cheeks, and over his swollen eyes. He breathed in sharply, preparing for the same effect Shay’s magic had on him—he remembered it feeling like boiling water, followed by cold hard stone against his skin. It was nothing personal to her—magic felt different with everybody.

And Lance’s happened to taste like spearmint and feel like a breath of fresh cold winter air after chewing mint gum. So when Lance’s enticing magic came to the surface of his fingertips, it chilled the heat pulsing under his skin. Keith sighed, releasing his breath, only to suck it back in when the cool texture of his fingertips turned ice cold, and they seemed to stick to his skin like a tongue against a frozen metal pole.

It spread like frost against his skin, and he felt like screaming—it was the same reaction he had with Shay, so maybe it was supposed to be painful? For whatever reason he was under the impression that Lance’s magic would always be cool and alluring— _never_ blisteringly cold. But Keith stayed silent like he did before and waited for Lance’s fingers to unstick from his obnoxiously swollen skin. 

By the time this happened, his skin was flat and returned to its usual pale hue. The frosty grip Lance’s fingers had on his skin thawed, and soon Keith was able to open his eyes again—wide and back to normal. His peripheral vision was better now that his swollen skin wasn’t in the way.

The only problem was that he opened his eyes to find Lance’s squeezed shut, almost in terror. 

“Lance, you can open your eyes now,” Keith said, grinning as Lance peaked open one eye. His pained concern vanished when he realized that Keith was entirely back to normal.

“ _Keeeith!_ ” Lance shrieked, lunging forward and throwing his arms around Keith’s neck. He laughed, clinging around Lance’s abdomen and glancing over at where Shiro smiled faintly, and Pidge squirmed into the bathroom to see Lance’s work up close. She pulled at Keith’s chin, despite the fact that underneath all those bruises were still there—he could feel them throbbing endlessly under his skin. He cringed a little, but let her manhandle him, causing Lance to pull back and make room for Pidge’s inspection.

“Hm, you did a nice job. You should’ve been a doctor or something,” she said, slapping Lance on the arm. He giggled, blushing at her compliments and cooing, “Oh, stop it. It was nothing.”

Keith felt like mentioning the fact that Lance _literally_ spent twenty minutes just reading and rereading the single piece of paper Shay had him write out. Clearly it wasn’t “nothing.”

They didn’t get around to calling Hunk into the bathroom to say that the coast was clear. Before that could happen, the front door intercom went off, and Keith could see Shiro straighten up a little at the sound. Their guests have arrived.

Lance bolted up from the bathtub and staggered out, hopping on one foot before cruising around Pidge and Shiro. Hunk was shouting, “They’re here! They’re here!”

Keith stood up from the bathtub ledge and followed Pidge and Shiro out. They came to the foyer as Lance was clearing his throat, and doing a soft little toss of his hair—as if his hair was long enough for that. Hunk rolled his eyes from the sidelines when Lance wasn’t looking, and just before Lance leaned in and pressed the button saying, “Who is it?”

“It’s Allura and Coran! Buzz us in, please!” Allura practically sang into the speaker. Her voice was crackly and pitchy, but it was still recognizable. 

Lance pressed his finger to the button and said, “Hm… how do I know that it’s you? Prove it.” He was grinning madly at Hunk as a soft hum came through the speaker. 

“Well…” Allura started, voice crackling. “When we first met, you didn’t know I was your professor, and your pickup line was, and I quote, ‘Aside from being sexy—’”

“Okay! Okay, I know it’s you. I’m buzzing you in now!” Lance said, voice shrill and panicked. 

“Perfect! Thanks Lance, you’re a sweetheart!” she said. Pidge was laughing so hard over by bathroom that she had her arms up against the wall, her head against her arms, and her glasses pulled back to avoid the tears.

Lance’s ears were bright red when he turned back around from buzzing them in. Keith chuckled, arms folded across his chest and said, “How did the rest of that pickup line go?”

“It didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh, come on, it was a good one!” Hunk insisted, punching Lance in the arm. “It went something like, ‘Aside from being sexy, what do you do for a living?’ and—oh my God—and _she_ said, ‘I teach culinary courses for a living.’ Everyone at our table _died_ it was _great_.”

“It was not!” Lance whined. “I’m still scarred by it!”

Pidge howled with laughter, falling against the wall and rubbing her hands under her glasses. “Why are you such a fuck boy?” she gasped, wheezing with laughter. 

Lance gasped, horrified. Keith laughed, tossing his arm around Lance’s shoulders and pulling him close. Pidge accused Keith of dating a fuck boy, and he pointedly kissed Lance’s hair and told her calm down about it. It just seemed to make her even more giddy—he suspected she was already a drink or two in at this point. 

A minute later a series of rapid knocks sounded against the door, and Hunk fought over Lance to get to the door. He yanked it open, holding Lance back by the shoulder to clear the path for Allura and Coran to come in. Hunk and Lance’s apartment was far more open than Pidge and Keith’s—it had an open format with only a small nook that separated the bathroom door from the kitchen. Hunk’s room was closest to that area, and Lance’s happened to be on the far side of the living room. Keith remembered the layout better now that he and Lance weren’t stumbling through the dark all those weeks ago.

“Hey-o everyone! Hey Keith, Shiro,” Coran announced, throwing his arms up. He was wearing a ridiculous, knitted jester hat—and Keith had to remind himself of Coran’s fascination with the world of knitting. 

Coran shoved his hand into his pocket and produced an array of confetti. He tossed it into the air, and Hunk oohed and ahed over it. Pidge plucked a piece off her glasses.

Lance giggled, shaking a few bits out of Keith’s hair. He felt the urge to scrunch his nose up like a rabbit, but even time he did that it felt like the bridge of his nose was about to rupture. So maybe not the greatest idea.

Allura came in with a bag full of goodies, so Hunk escorted her to the kitchen counter where all the food and drinks were. She brought Baileys—evidently her favorite drink to mix with—and homemade treats her and Coran put together earlier that day. Keith and Lance collapsed into the beanbag together—it was near the street window and accompanied with one of those obviously-college four-posted disk chairs. Pidge perched herself on top of it with her legs crossed, and from around her frame Keith could see Shiro step into the kitchen and steal one of the cookies from Allura’s stash. She whirled on him and slapped his chest for scaring her like that.

Her cheeks went bright red before she turned back around and ripped the rest of the saran wrap off the plate. Keith snickered a little, turning back to Lance who saw the whole thing as well. 

“Okay!” Hunk announced, clinking a glass with a fork. He threw his hand up, saying, “Our first order of events is to play a game of CAH where every black card you get, you have to drink. Lance, the Bigger Blacker Box, if you will.” He pointedly stretched out his arms to accept the gift as Lance hopped up to his feet and bestowed it upon him.

Cards Against Humanity was a game Keith never really understood. He only played it once or twice in the past—in high school—and even then he wasn’t all that great. But he could tell instantly from the smirk on Pidge’s lips that she would sweep over _everyone_ in this game. Card games, even CAH, were a competition in her eyes.

Some time in the middle of passing popcorn and resituating themselves into a circle, a massive, deafening _crash!_ sounded outside the window, and it rattled the windowpane and sent Hunk into a screaming fit. He clutched his hands around his face as Keith got up to investigate, but they all knew what the sound was. _Rain, in December?_ Keith commented as a few telltale signs of water droplets pecked at the glass. 

“The weather is so weird,” Pidge complained with a huff as Keith came back. A few minutes later the background music was accompanied by a downpour. 

Lance and Keith sat together, and it was difficult keeping their hands a secret from one another. Lance would pointedly yank his cards away from Keith and lay them face-down on the ground, giving him a playful glare from the side. Keith rolled his eyes—either way he wouldn’t be winning the game. The only times he won were the times Lance _knew_ specifically what card was his on his turn.

Pidge was killer, as Keith assumed, but she became more intense as the game went on because Allura and Shiro were just as excellent. They sat side-by-side with their knees touching, and after a few rounds of getting comfortable with the game, Allura would snort whenever she got a good card and show it to Shiro. Coran was a stickler for calling Keith and Lance out, but he’d just smile innocently whenever Allura and Shiro went against the rules.

But due to the fact that Pidge, Allura, and Shiro were winning, their glasses were empty and refilled approximately three times before the game ended. Pidge would throw her arms up after every crash of thunder and yell, “KAPOW!” while Hunk provided additional sound effects. Lance giggled against Keith’s shoulder, fairly tipsy and touchy-feely. Keith wasn’t even halfway through his cup, but he was starting to think that Shiro wouldn’t give a shit. The bossman was too busy whispering and giggling to the bosslady to even notice what Keith was doing anyway.

When it came time to actually start playing Mario Kart, the music was on high and the bass was vibrating in Keith’s stomach. Keith could feel his bruises starting to come back because the pressure on his skull was starting to relieve, but one look at Lance told him that fixing it would definitely be an issue. Lance was sat between Keith’s legs, and he was fiddling around with the fabric around Keith’s ankles, and tugging at his socks and hugging his knees. He’d tip his head back and accidentally bash it into Keith’s chin, only to apologize profusely and kiss the “boo-boo.” 

Keith giggled and brushed him off, wrapping his arms around Lance’s shoulders to hold him still as Hunk designated the first four players. Prior to any of this occurring, they decided that they would nudge Shiro and Allura together in every game they played—from Cards Against Humanity to Mario Kart. So Hunk passed the controllers off to them, and Pidge and Coran. 

Pidge ended up with controller one.

So of course she picked Rainbow Road. She liked to see her competitors suffer.

As drunk as they all were at that time—specifically Shiro and Allura and Pidge—the entire thing was one massive shit show. Keith and Lance watched from the couch behind the entire event of Allura shrieking every time she fell off the road, and then tackle Coran in the time it took for Princess Peach to respawn. She’d clasp her hands over Coran’s eyes and he’d shout, “ _UNHAND ME!_ ” as she screamed, “WALUIGI _CAN’T WIN!_ ” 

Eventually she got ballsy enough to tackle Shiro onto the ground like a deranged lion. Keith laughed so hard his stomach hurt—just seeing his boss get tackled like that so complacently was hilarious. Shiro had nothing more than a vague look of wonder on his face every time he went down, only to spring back up the second Allura lunged to her controller and got back into the game.

Lance was all over Keith at every second of the game. They didn’t play for a while, which left Lance to crawl all over his lap and obscure his vision of Pidge going so far as to sit on Coran’s shoulders to keep him from winning. It didn’t do her very good, and Lance crawling all over Keith didn’t do either of them very good in the end. 

Lance plopped down onto Keith’s lap and squirmed around, arms around his neck whining, “Can we go to my room?” 

“Oh my God, Lance—no, _no_ —stop that,” Keith complained, plucking Lance’s fingers from his ears, and then again on his shirt when Lance tried to drag him by the shirt. 

“You don’t _need_ it though!” Lance whimpered, bumping his head against Keith’s sensitive and bruised nose. 

“Ouch! I’m trying to watch the game—”

“You don’t even _like_ sports—”

“Okay, that’s a goddamn lie and you know it,” Keith sighed, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Lance pouted at him, but this time it was easier to ignore it simply because Lance was drunk and everyone Keith even cared to like happened to be in the same room as them. 

Lance went to take off Keith’s shirt, biting his tongue between his teeth as he yanked it up. Keith cried out, floundering for control over the situation. Lance was giggling the whole goddamn time, pulling on the collar of his shirt and tackling him onto the couch. “Lance no! Stop it—ha!—You can’t have my shirt!” Keith shrieked, head dipping off the couch followed by the rest of his body.

At the _clunk!_ of both of them hitting the floor, Hunk snorted from across the room and said, “ _Pff!_ Lance is trying to strip Keith!”

“He doesn’t need clothes!” Lance cried out, throwing the shirt over Keith’s face. 

He huffed and collapsed, not even fighting anymore. “This is just ridiculous,” Keith muttered through the fabric. 

“Re-move-his-shirt! Re-move-his-shirt!” Pidge chanted, and Hunk joined in. Keith would have been fine just laying there with his goddamn stomach exposed to the elements, had Allura not joined in and tugged the rest of it off his arms. 

“ _I have Keith’s shirt!_ ” she hollered, waving it above her head as she went to the kitchen. 

“ _That’s my boyfriend’s shirt!_ Give it back, he _needs it!_ ” Lance whined, jumping off Keith. His elbow knocked the air straight out of Keith’s lungs. He grunted, pushing himself up into a seated position to watch Lance chase Allura around the island counter. He felt dizzy and in pain but that didn’t seem to stop Pidge from seating herself in his lap and handing him the controller. Evidently the match was over with, which meant it was his turn to play.

Being the most sober out of all of them, Keith didn’t even fair all that well against Hunk. Pidge _claimed_ that Keith would be better off on the account of his shirt fabric no longer being in the way, but that didn’t seem to be the case either. He wound up in ninth—which wasn’t too bad in his opinion. It was better than the twelfth-place streak Allura had under her belt.

Shiro forced Keith’s shirt back on him after the match and scolded Allura for taking it in the first place. It was the first time Keith ever saw her pout—her messy white hair in a tizzy around her face, and a cranberry stain on her dress. Keith reached behind him, hand floundering for the glass in Lance’s hand, and drank the rest of it. He hoped he could forget his momentary existential crisis in the morning.

They were in NYC and they didn’t even see the ball drop. They missed it by about five minutes because Pidge was the one keeping track, and ended up falling asleep on Hunk’s lap on the beanbag. He would absently stroke her hair and whisper, “Sh… my sweet gremlin.” Allura was better off after throwing up in the bathroom and stumbling out saying, “Hunk, I used your mouthwash. I hope you don’t mind.”

“How’d you know it was Hunk’s?” Keith asked, quirking an eyebrow up.

She fiddled with her fingers in the air, trying to illustrate it as she said, “He has… um… he makes labels for everything using masking tape. It says ‘Hunk’ on the bottle.”

Coran stood up from the couch, knees cracking and elbow joints snapping as he stretched up and arched his back. “Well! We should be off soon. Do you need help cleaning up before we go?” he asked Hunk and Lance, but Lance was passed out against Keith’s shoulder, his hand somehow stuffed in Keith’s opposite pant pocket.

“No, we should be fine,” Hunk said. “Did y’all take Allura’s bike?”

“Oh no, that would be absurd. We just took the transit here. No big deal—saving gas money and all that hullabaloo,” he said, waving his hand absently in the air. “Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes!”

At this, Shiro stood up, saying, “I have my car here, if you two need a ride. Keith and Pidge are staying here the night, so I’ve got room.”

Allura stumbled over to him, patting her hands on his chest with every emphasized word: “That… would be _wonderful_. Thank you.”

“I suppose that’s a yes,” Coran said, chuckling as Shiro’s already pink cheeks turned redder.

Keith watched them with his head tipped back on the couch cushion. Coran helped Allura into her jacket, which she thanked him profusely for—by the sound of it, it was like Coran just saved her cat from a burning fire. Shiro held the door open for them, and waved to those awake in the living room. “Thanks for hosting the party Hunk—and Lance. I’ll see you guys at The Quilted Lion later.”

After the door closed, Hunk let out a relieved sigh, saying, “I’m _so_ glad I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“Same…” Keith laughed, gently nudging Lance’s head off his shoulder, and hand out of his pocket. He stood up, joints cracking. “I’ll carry Lance to his room and come back to take care of Pidge. Are ya staying up a bit longer?” he asked.

Hunk looked at the mess in the kitchen, the confetti in the foyer, and the disaster of CAH cards brushed aside in the corner. “Um… I’ll deal with this all tomorrow…” he moaned as Keith hoisted Lance up into his arms. The action woke Lance up a bit, but just enough to tuck his arms against Keith’s chest and mutter, “Shirt…”

Keith laid him over the blankets on his bed before returning to fetch Pidge. As he pulled her off Hunk’s limp body, he said, “Make sure you get some water. I’m gonna force Pidge and Lance to do the same before I go to sleep.”

“Smart plan,” Hunk huffed, pushing himself up and fetching a few glasses of water from the kitchen. He passed one to Keith after he transferred Pidge to the couch. 

He kept her up long enough to set her glasses on the ottoman and get her to drink the rest of the water. “Did Coran and Allura already leave?” she asked. “What about the—the New Years?”

“It’s already done, and Shiro took them home,” Keith reassured her. She looked like a mess. Her small body could only take so much alcohol at one time, and now it just looked like she was crashing hard and fast. Her eyes were droopy, and without her glasses they just looked smaller and farther apart than usual. Keith combed back her gnarled nest of ginger curls as she tipped her head back and drank the last bit from the glass. 

From the side Keith heard a soft, “Aw…” and turned to find Hunk standing in the kitchen with his hands clasped under his chin. He gasped a little when Keith pegged him with a calm stare, and said, “Oops, sorry. That was just supposed to be an internal ‘aw’, my bad. See you guys in the morning!”

“Night…” Pidge mumbled, handing her glass to Keith. Hunk disappeared into his room as Keith set Pidge’s glass on the counter and took a sip from Lance’s as he wandered back into the living room. Pidge nestled under the blanket and said goodnight to Keith on his way to Lance’s room.

He shut the door softly behind him and knelt beside the bed. Lance was completely out cold, and it took several seconds for Keith to rustle him back awake. Lance squeezed his eyes shut before blinking them open, frowning curiously at Keith as he held up the glass of water. “Drink this before you pass out again,” Keith said.

“ _Again?_ When did I pass out?” he asked, voice groggy as he sat up and chugged half the glass. “I… had this dream where we were at the movie theatre again. And they were playing _Finding Nemo_.”

“Interesting,” Keith murmured as he nudged the curtains closed and took a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Yeah…” Lance hummed, and drowned the rest of it with the remains of the water in his glass. He set it on the nightstand before shifting under the blankets and reaching for Keith. “It was weird because your hair was blue and I really liked it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” he said, voice quiet yet thrilled by the idea. “Would you be willing to dye your hair?”

“I don’t think so. Would you be?”

Lance thought hard for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. It seems expensive.”

“It does.”

They were silent for a while, and Keith almost thought Lance was asleep again until Lance started combing his fingers through the ends of Keith’s hair. He breathed Irish cream Baileys onto Keith’s forehead before kissing it lazily and saying, “I feel bad. Because I didn’t make love to you tonight.”

Keith snorted, tipping his chin up as he said, “Make _what_ to me? Who even says that nowadays?”

Lance frowned at him and said, “I do. It’s sweet. And it shows my affections. Take it or leave it, but it’s there now. Do with it what you will, my beloved mullet… I… I just want to sleep now.” He shushed Keith before he could say another word, and fell asleep with his finger pressed to Keith’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE *throws chapter at you* TAKE THIS STUPIDLY LONG CHAPTER. It's full of FLUFF and DRUNKEN IDIOTS and thE PUREST LOVE THERE IS. (legit tho this is like 7k words)
> 
> I have a cup of coffee, a new fic idea, and I'm prepared to single handedly desTROY THE VOLTRON FANDOM WITH IT. Also, every time Kolivan shows up I plan on saying something like: "Can you tell I watched Doctor Strange ?? And that I'm OBSESSED ??" because that would be accurate. Like, the second _awen_ came in, I was basically screeching, "DOCTOR STRAAANGE!"


	14. Obsessed, Insane, Idiotic

Keith spent the morning with Pidge. They skipped Oatmeal Sunday in favor of sleeping in, and while it sucked getting a semi-early start after New Year’s, Keith appreciated the chance to stretch out his legs and get a sense of the crisp morning air. He stretched out in the park, hands above his head, before returning them to the oatmeal on his lap and scarfing down a few more bites.

Pidge had bags under her eyes and her nose was red—either from the cold or the fact that she was under a cold. It showed up that morning when Keith nudged her awake. Stuffy nose, migrane—but perhaps that was just an over exaggeration of a hangover. Either way she stared blankly at the brick pathway and lazily bit down onto her spoon.

Keith’s phone buzzed in his pocket. One of the other seven contacts in his phone happened to be Professor Kolivan now. He was asking about Keith’s plans that afternoon. “I have a meeting after this,” he murmured, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. The last thing he needed was for his phone to die on him.

“For what?”

“I dunno.”

“Oh…” she hummed, rubbing the back of her hand underneath her glasses. “I’m tired.”

“You wanna head back to the apartment?” he asked, and she nodded, practically dropping her head into her bowl of oatmeal. As they stood up, Keith put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her in the right direction. “Why don’t we get you some Advil before we head back.”

“Okay.”

So they went to the nearest Walgreens from Washington Square Park and purchased a bottle of Advil before tossing out their empty oatmeal cups. At the apartment, Keith tried to make hot chocolate like Lance did—again—and failed. It just tasted like regular Nestle powder hot chocolate. Either way, he set it on her nightstand, along with a glass of water and two Advils. She was sitting up in bed on her computer when she asked for the tissue box in the bathroom. He got it for her and wedged it behind her headboard—where the narrow windowsill was. 

“I’ll be back later today. I don’t have training.”

“Okay.”

  


  


Professor Kolivan had a way of getting Keith to focus like he never focused before. He loved the feeling of having complete control of his surroundings. He could be in another room and know the exact layout of the space just beyond the closed door. It was what his professor insisted was Keith’s innate ability to sense oncoming attacks. He could feel like this all the time—

—As soon as he was able to produce this magic without Professor Kolivan’s help.

They spent an hour in meditation. At first meditation just seemed useless and boring and an excuse to sleep for a while. For their first few meetings, Keith sat there and pretended like he knew what was going on but really, he hadn’t the slightest idea. And then, it just seemed to click one day—a few days prior to the tournament—and Keith felt in control of his mind space in a way he hadn’t before.

There were places inside his brain that were like small, minuscule containers filled with unlimited possibilities. He could open one and see various reactions to conversations he had, to late-night chats he had with Lance, or even how he made a batch of scones at The Quilted Lion. He could have put too much cinnamon in and it would have tasted completely different. He could have mixed up the salt and sugar and been scolded by Coran. He could have said the wrong thing and made Lance cry again.

And Professor Kolivan was right there with him—in this massive bubble of _everything_ Keith remembered and forgot. He _knew_ they were in the room, and yet… they were elsewhere. Keith was inside of himself, gently prodding at past memories and recalling emotions and events, sensations, tastes, touches, sounds—

“Go back a bit further—can you visualize your historical past? Like it’s farther down the mountain?” Professor Kolivan asked. Keith’s entire being was just floating abstractly until his professor said that.

It all dropped into a physical landscape, and Keith felt that plummeting feeling in his stomach—like just before he fell asleep and got the sensation that he was falling from the sky. He jolted to a landing, kicking up a time when Pidge came back from an exam and bawled her eyes out in her bedroom thinking she failed miserably. She wouldn’t let him inside so he sat outside her room. It wasn’t like he was good at consoling people when they cried anyway—but he could hear her and he felt it all the way to the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” he all but choked out, resisting the urge to massage the tension returning to his throat. “I feel… more grounded now.”

“Like an anchor is attached to your ankles. It’s the best way to prevent yourself from feeling lost—hold onto the chain.”

Something cold and hard slapped into Keith’s palm. He held onto it, and used it as his breadcrumbs as he wandered down the slope. It was almost like each footstep was into a puddle that swept over him with hints of memories, and past emotions that turned into a whirlwind of something awful he hadn’t felt in nearly two years. He felt it claw at his chest, nails scraping over his skin, digging for his heart. 

He could see Pidge in the room with him, shouting at him from over the coffee table—he could hear her yelling, “ _What the hell is wrong with you!? Why are you so obsessed?!_ ” He remembered feeling like he couldn’t control what he loved, and how much he loved, and that sense of dependance was sickening. He didn’t want to depend on anyone—but why else would he be crying when Pidge was yelling at him like that? Why did he have to care what she said about him, about something he had no control over? 

Why couldn’t he just _control this?_

Pidge vanished to a beautiful face Keith remembered, and his chest started to ache. Nowadays, remembering Lotor only made him feel sick to his stomach, but sinking into these potholes and puddles reminded him that he _did_ love Lotor—and for good reason. The man had the most _beautiful laugh_ —and that _smile_ …

“ _Well, even if she does say you’re obsessed, I don’t see anything wrong with that. The feeling is mutual,_ ” Lotor said, his long, narrow hands shielding Keith’s bruised face and damp cheeks. No amount of brushing away tear tracks would dry Keith’s cheeks—not when Lotor wasn’t even real right now.

Keith broke his stance to smudge his hands over his eyes, tipping back into the real world and forgetting that slope they were walking down. He breathed in heavily, wincing as he looked up and found Professor Kolivan watching him with that persistent, calm expression.

“What?” Keith bit out. 

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Your response to everything we’ve done so far is extraordinary. And you said the tournament is this coming weekend? We should be able to finish rerouting your magic in another day or so. It’s all a matter of being able to control it yourself without my assistance.”

“Coran should be thrilled to hear that,” Keith laughed hollowly. He hadn’t told Coran or Lance for that matter. It was a surprise of sorts—he wanted to come to work one day and just be able to play on Coran’s field as an equal sorcerer. “Am I supposed to… remember emotions like that?”

“Yes. Meditation isn’t always calm and relaxing. It’s a taxing process, and it doesn’t come without existential struggles. It’s a way of reflection. Think of it as a personal mirror—and see how far you’ve come,” he said, taking Keith’s hand and brushing off the moisture from his calloused knuckles with the sleeve of his cardigan. “Have you heard of palmistry? For the most part it’s just fantastical, but in some instances, we can depend on it. The lines on our palms change constantly—our habits are drawn into them, and when habits change eventually so do the lines. If you were… say, a _boxer_ —what a wild concept—your hands are constantly closed into fists. Your hands conform to this position, and create the same folds and wrinkles over and over again. In comparison to mine, I always have a book in my hands, I am always writing by hand, typing, doing small tasks. My hands are always in a different position than yours, and as such, my wrinkles are different. You see?”

They compared hands, and Keith’s momentary skepticism began to fade. There was some logic to palmistry Keith never realized. 

“Your hands have changed, just as you have. These callouses weren’t always here, or these scars. You are not the same person you were several years ago; physically, emotionally, mentally. Meditation lends a mirror into your past self, like tracing back your magical footprint, or even rewinding the wrinkles on your palms,” Professor Kolivan said, laying Keith’s hand down.

“I’m ready to go again.”

  


  


“Compliments to the chef!” Lance said, twirling into the room to deposit some empty plates into the sink. Keith scowled down at them after having finished cleaning the last batch, but perked up as soon as Lance pecked him on the cheek. His face went red under the attention, and he grinned away from Lance so they could both get back to work.

Since New Year’s, Keith’s bruises came back, and faded quickly. There was nothing more than a bit of blackish-red on his eyelids that looked like nothing more than intense, sleepless shadows. Before every shift, Lance would work his magic that became a little bit more bearable each time. So Coran never asked any questions, and Allura was none the wiser about it.

“Keith’s cheesecakes are getting better,” Lance commented to Coran. “I’m hearing all about it but I haven’t tried it yet. Can I have a slice?”

“No—not until the end of your shift,” Coran said, scolding him with a swat on the hand. Lance retracted his palm to his chest and frowned at Coran. “And only if there’s leftovers. You know Allura’s rules.”

“Yes, but we don’t always _have_ to follow them,” Lance whined as he slumped back to the door with a huff. 

Keith glanced over at the window where he could see Shiro up at the bar this time around. He and Allura were talking about this-or-that, which ended in Shiro throwing his head back laughing. Lance appeared walking behind them and made a heart shape with his fingers at Keith—indirectly pointing it at Allura. She instantly was up in arms, scolding him to stop dillydallying. Lance froze up before picking up the pace, practically running to his table. The customers there giggled to one another as Allura turned back to the coffee maker, fuming, and pegging her glare on Keith then. He blushed and turned back to the sink, grinning to himself.

At the end of the day, Keith pulled up a stool by the stove to watch Coran flip pancakes one by one into the air and flop them into Keith’s togo container—golden brown and fluffy. Keith capped a small container of syrup to go with it, and stuffed it in as Coran swept up a dollop of whip cream and mixed it with strawberries and blueberries, drizzling them over the top. With a flick of his hand, the togo container flipped shut and was whisked into Keith’s hands. 

“Flawless as ever,” Keith said, tipping his imaginary hat at Coran.

“All in a day’s work. Have a nice night, Keith—Allura’s closing tonight so you don’t need to worry about a thing,” he said, saluting Keith before turning back to make himself a batch of pancakes.

Keith met Lance in the back hallway. He set the togo container on the steps leading up to the second floor, so he could tug on his jacket and circle his neck in the soft, fluffy material of Lance’s sweater. Before he could get to zipping up his jacket, Lance stepped over to do it for him, and topped it off with a soft, gentle kiss on Keith’s lips. With the bruising gone, he could do that now and Keith could see just how much Lance relished in it.

Their kiss was slow and soft, and separated with their lips with that _click_ of release. Lance sighed, lips brushing against Keith’s as he said, “ _Damn_ , I missed kissing you. Why’d you have to go and split your lip open?”

Keith scoffed, nestling their noses together from over the fabric of their scarves. “Well, that wasn’t exactly _my_ decision. C’mon, let’s go.”

They clasped on to each others hands and Keith tucked his pancake togo box against his chest. January always seemed colder, perhaps to remind them that even as another year passes, Keith couldn’t be so foolish as to assume it would be any better. But being with Lance, holding Lance’s hand, walking Lance home, made him so much warmer and happier than last year ever could. So he didn’t mind the cold outside of their small, intimate bubble.

As they walked, gliding between people passing by, Lance tipped his head towards Keith’s and said, “Hey, I have a stupid question to ask you.”

“What is it?” he said, glancing out at the street as a car drove by and flashed their lights across the sidewalk. Their shadows grew in length and vanished.

A moment passed before Keith realized that Lance hadn’t said anything, so he turned back to look at Lance. He had his eyes on the pavement, skin puckered above the bridge of his nose. Keith squeezed his hand, about to say something, when Lance shook his head and said, “No, it’s stupid. Never mind.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“You’ll think it’s corny, or that I’m being… I dunno, an _idiot_ or whatever,” Lance huffed, scowling ahead. “So never mind. What are you doing tomorrow?”

Keith hesitated at the abrupt change, and said, “What were you gonna say? I want to hear it now. You can’t just say that and expect me not to wonder about it.”

“I know. But can we just forget it? I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

That just put a bad taste in Keith’s mouth. He vaguely wondered if it was the spearmint on his tongue going sour. He looked away from Lance and tried to forget, but suddenly it was like he was stuck in a loop—falling right back into the puddle where Lance said he wanted to ask Keith a question. Fuck Professor Kolivan for teaching Keith how to remember every goddamn thing he wanted to forget.

He couldn’t ignore the fact that this entire situation felt hauntingly familiar.

“Lotor used to guilt-trip me starting arguments,” Keith said softly. “He’d be all vague like he didn’t want to talk about something so I’d push until I got us both to blow up.”

They were both quiet until Keith looked at Lance and said, “Is that what you’re trying to do now? Because I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to go to your apartment and eat pancakes.”

Lance sniffed and shook his head, muttering, “No, that’s not what I’m going for. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Keith sighed. “Then what is it?”

They were at the subway station that would get them to the blue line, and to the Lower East Side. The steps were a bit icy so they took it slow, and at the ground level they stood in the mostly-empty station, on the yellow-and-white tiles, under tungsten lights. Here Keith could see Lance’s vulnerable eyes, and how they seemed to look everywhere but Keith as he said:

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love within the span of, like, three weeks?” 

Lance’s cheeks were red, and Keith’s quickly followed suit. He pushed his scarf up a bit higher to hide it, and wondered what the hell he could say to that. It wasn’t hard to put two-and-two together, and the thought of it made Keith’s insides warm and fluttery. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Keith breathed out, losing his breath when Lance met his gaze. “I mean, yeah it’s kinda senseless but… it’s not like we’re about to go get married and start our goddamn life together like a bunch of lovesick unicorns. C’mon, we’re more realistic than that.”

Lance snorted, and threw his head back laughing. “I guess so. I didn’t exactly have plans to propose to you right here right now.”

“How romantic. In the subway.”

“Cheesy, I know,” he giggled, pressing his head to Keith’s shoulder before pulling back and clearing his throat. “So it’s fine if I say I love you. You don’t know how many times I have to stop myself from saying it or texting it or whatever before we go to sleep.”

Keith smiled so wide he thought his lip might split open again. He hid it behind his scarf and said, “Yeah, I’m cool with that—”

“And I mean, you don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready. I don’t want to pressure you or anything. I’m not about that life,” Lance said quickly, almost panicked at the thought. 

Keith shook his head fast, saying, “No—I mean, um—” _Goddamn what the hell are words?_ Keith groaned internally, brain short-circuiting in the instant it took for that entire mind scape of _everything_ to just vanish. Would Lance think he had commitment issues if he didn’t say it back? 

So he decided to improvise.

“Do you know a lot of Shakespeare?” he blurted out, voice partially drowned out by the incoming train. Lance nodded, grinning. “Then have you heard that ‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is that not strange?’”

The train came to a screeching halt in front of them, and before the doors could even open, Lance let out a high-pitched, “Aw!” and tackled Keith right in the middle of the subway platform. He laughed, practically carrying Lance through the doors before they snapped shut behind them. He and Lance shared the space of two seats and laughed to one another like they had the greatest secret in the world, when really, there were plenty of people in NYC who were under the same delusion as them. 

Everything was idiotic about love, but Keith wouldn’t say that to Lance because then he’d just be a hypocrite.

  


  


At Lance’s apartment, after dawdling outside looking at the manga collection in the store window, Lance decided that they spent a sufficient amount of time letting Hunk fall asleep before they went up. “I mean, I don’t think he minds having you over—I just don’t want him to think I have you over _all_ the time, you know? He might get jealous,” Lance explained.

“Shouldn’t _I_ be the jealous one in this situation?” Keith said, baffled by it all. What gave Hunk the right to be jealous over Lance? 

“I mean, Hunk and I always get our bro-time together. I don’t want him to think I’m bailing on him. We used to watch a lot of Netflix before I started bringing you over all the time,” he explained as they marched up the steps. “And I mean, I haven’t talked to him about it yet, but I don’t know if he’d be annoyed if I had you join in on the Netflix nights.”

“I still think I should be the jealous one in this situation.”

“But Hunk’s my _roommate_. We gotta have our bro-time.”

Keith scowled at the back of Lance’s head, but when he didn’t agree, Lance slapped his hands down and said, “I mean, you _know_ I love Hunk. He’s, like, the perfect boyfriend material.”

Keith stuttered on the second floor landing and said, “Okay, _wow_ , thanks—”

“But you have to admit, Hunk’s like a big teddy bear. Cuddle sessions with him are the best.”

Keith was honestly so pissed he couldn’t come up with a decent response aside from, “Okay, first off, fuck you. And also, go fuck yourself.”

Lance whined, standing there as Keith stormed past him and started up the next flight of stairs. Eventually, he recovered enough to hurry after Keith and say, “You’re just saying that because you haven’t had cuddle sessions with Hunk before! Nothing beats them! All of his girlfriends agree with me!”

“You say that like he has multiple girlfriends _at this moment!_ What the fuck?”

They paused on Lance’s floor, turning to one another—Keith furiously, and Lance exasperated, as if he expected Keith to understand this bromance _perfectly_. “Hunk’s a pretty likable guy. He’s got girls climbin’ him like a tree, okay? So it’s not like I’m his first choice, especially since he doesn’t swing my way, you know?” 

At this, Lance folded his arms over his chest, self-consciously and a little bitterly. Keith tilted his head to the side, surveying Lance from a different angle. It was strange to think that Lance ever felt like he wasn’t even an option—he was _everything_ Keith could possibly dream of.

Keith held his togo box off to the side so he could step up to Lance and tug on the cloth belt loop on his coat. “You’re my first choice,” Keith said.

Lance pursed his lips and looked up at Keith through his eyelashes. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. But clearly I’m not _your_ first choice, so I don’t even know why I’m tryna argue with you on this,” he said, stepping back from Lance with his hands up. He had a playful smirk on his lips as he turned towards the door to Lance’s floor and stepped through. 

Lance whimpered a little from inside the stairwell before hurrying through the closing door and slamming into Keith’s back. He threw his arms around Keith’s waist, and he laughed a little as Lance begged for forgiveness. 

Keith hummed, as if considering it, before saying, “I dunno. I’m thinking I have to prove why I _should_ be your first choice.” With that, he rolled his hips back against Lance’s, who squeaked out a giggle before pushing Keith towards the apartment door. Keith laughed, sliding his hips to and fro against the front of Lance’s jeans—but he was just pressed against the door for it and bit in the ear.

“ _Stop_ that, Jesus,” Lance laughed. “Let me get my keys out.”

Keith heard him fumbling around in his pockets for the keys, and the second he got them out of his pocket, Keith said, “Let me help you with that,” and reached behind him to grab Lance’s crotch.

Lance yelped, dropping the keys as he slapped his hand over his mouth, elbowing Keith hard in the back. They were both giggling like idiots by the time Lance got around to unlocking the door and letting Keith in, hushing them both with a finger to Keith’s lips. Considering what sort of attitude-slash-mood Keith was in, he bit it playfully and was delighted to find Lance’s brown cheeks turn an even darker shade of red.

“That’s it—you and your demonic mullet, my room— _ASAP_ ,” Lance hissed at him, shoving Keith into the living room with a laugh. Keith abandoned his togo box on the counter. 

That night Lance was insistent on “making love,” whatever that meant. Keith found the whole situation ridiculous—like, shouldn’t there be candles? rose petals? a bottle of wine involved? Whatever the case, he ended up having a giggle-fit midway through until Lance huffed out, lips slick along Keith’s neck, “ _God_ , I love you. Say it? _Pleeease_?”

Keith smiled, hesitating to capture Lance’s lips in a sharp, aggressive kiss before saying, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess...? this is a Valentines Day post...? But I don't think V.D. is all that real and I've never really celebrated it so I mean, do with it what you will. 
> 
> Honestly Keith is me. If I can't think of my own words I instantly think of someone else's. What Shakespeare play do you think that came from? I'm reading it right now :P


	15. The Edge of Glory

Contrary to popular belief, Shiro didn’t spend all his days sitting in his regular booth at The Quilted Lion. However, it was general knowledge that it was the only place he ever saw Allura.

At least, until he took Keith’s suggestion into account and commented on her motorcycle. 

“My motorcycle?” she repeated, eyebrows up. “What about it?”

“Hunk mentioned it at the party—I didn’t realize you had a bike,” he said. “How long have you had it?”

At this she leaned against the counter, thinking hard enough to tip her brows together and pout her lips. Her lips were a delicious plum shade, to match her purplish earrings and necklace. “Well…” she started, dropping her hand onto the countertop and drumming her nails against it. “I want to think I’ve had it since I was… twenty-two? It was closer to my graduation—yes! Because Coran couldn’t wait until my graduation to give it to me. He got it for a really nice price and couldn’t pass it up, and he didn’t want it sitting around—yes, that was it!”

“That was nice of him. My parents _never_ would have bought a goddamn motorcycle for me just for graduating college,” Shiro said, with a laugh. 

She grinned at him and said, “Uni is a huge achievement! We spend the entirity of our ‘young lives’ in the system. I spent over half my life being ranted at by teachers—I deserved a motorcycle!” As she shouted it, Shiro threw his head back and laughed. An instant later he came back to reality when Allura stepped to the side, jabbing her finger in Lance’s direction, “Quit it, Lance—stop dillydallying!”

Shiro glanced over his shoulder as the boy scurried to his table, laughing to himself. He turned back around to find Allura back at the coffee machine—her profile was highlighted in the florescent kitchen lighting, and she stuck her tongue out at—was it Keith? Most likely, Shiro concluded. 

The bell rang over the door, so Allura saw to the customers asking for gelato samples. The bluish white light that filtered from the glass seemed to highlight her pure white hair, and the way her full plum lips pulled into a dazzling smile when the customers complimented the taste of the blueberry flavor. Shiro leant his chin against the palm of his hand as Allura whisked two fingers into the air, and a scoop of gelato curled up and into a glass bowl. She topped the saucer with two wafer cookies and expertly tossed two small spoons into the dish.

“Enjoy!” she said, and they thanked her, heading towards a booth on the far side of the café. 

She brushed her hands over her apron and glanced at Shiro. He bit his lip, turning away and feeling the heat rising to the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat and glanced at her. The words were on the tip of his fucking tongue— _why couldn’t he say them?_

“Do you need a refill?” she said, voice suddenly right in front of him. He looked up at her, and she offered a cheeky grin. “On the house—I told you I’d get you a free drink once a week.”

“I probably shouldn’t. I’ll be up ‘till one at this rate,” he said. “But I was just thinking… about your motorcycle. I’d love to see it some time.”

At first he thought he’d said the wrong thing, but the smile that came a few seconds afterwards contradicted his doubts. She beamed at him, leaning over the counter and saying, “ _Are you kidding?_ I’d love to give you a spin! If you stay another hour I could take you out for a bit I—I… I mean if you want. You probably have better things to do, and it’ll probably be late by the time we get back.”

“O-Okay. Yeah, that sounds good to me,” Shiro said rapidly, studying the brief look of relief that flickered past her eyes. She recovered fast with another dazzling smile before leaving Shiro to finish his coffee, and wish that he could replay the look on her face when he suggested that he see her motorcycle. 

So Shiro stuck around for another hour, on his phone, listening to the tender hum of the espresso machine, and the banter behind the kitchen window. He could see Keith from this spot—it was one of the reasons he was starting to prefer the barstools since he got to keep an eye on Keith and sit a touch closer to where Allura worked constantly.

Every now and then when Coran’s eyes weren’t on Keith, Shiro noted how the kid would test methods of magic that were less noticeable—and perhaps the easiest for him to perform. Naturally, Coran could whisk a swirl of whip cream onto any dessert without a hassle, but it took several seconds for Keith’s to register. When it did finally twist into an excellent, peaked tuft, Keith beamed at it, almost too excited to hide it when Lance came to the back to fetch it. When Lance left, Keith glanced at the window where Shiro offered a thumbs up. The kid flipped him off.

“He’s a bit salty, isn’t he?” Allura commented from behind, stepping around and taking a seat beside Shiro. He glanced at her, and at the rest of the sitting area—there was just the one couple finishing off with dessert. Lance was over there chatting with them about this-and-that and getting them to laugh.

“He’s always been like that,” Shiro said, turning back to her and the gentle way she smiled at him, elbow propped and hand tucked under her chin. “Are we going?”

“Yeah! Follow me,” she said, spinning in the stool and jumping off. 

Shiro followed suit, and went behind the counter with her, and into the kitchen. Keith was washing dishes and turned at the sound of footsteps passing by, so as Allura disappeared into the hall, Shiro said, “She’s showing me her motorcycle.”

Keith smirked and gave him a thumbs up, so Shiro flipped him off before heading out the back door with Allura. What a cocky little shit. The last thing Shiro needed was something for Keith to lord over him—but it seemed he was too late to prevent that.

The air was cool and pinched at Shiro’s cheeks, so he zipped his jacket up the rest of the way and topped it with the scarf in his hand. Allura was still shrugging on her coat, no longer wearing her Quilted Lion apron, when she said, “I hope you don’t mind wearing a helmet.”

“Not at all. Let’s see it,” Shiro said, stepping up beside her as she unlocked the helmets from the handles of her bike.

In the nook behind The Quilted Lion, there were several cars parked from nearby apartment complexes and other businesses, but Allura’s motorcycle was the only bike among them. It was smooth around the edges with a curved windshield—all black and accented in sky blue. He expected nothing less considering what he knew about her—

—But he still couldn’t believe Keith got a ride on this motorcycle before him.

Allura tossed him the helmet before reaching up and untying her bun. She unclipped the braids and refastened them in the back, saying, “It’s hard to fit both my head _and_ a bun into the helmet.”

Shiro chuckled as he buckled the bottom of the helmet and flipped the visor shut. She patted his helmet, laugh muffled by her own visor, before she stepped up to the bike and swung her leg over it. She propped a foot up on the stand before patting the seat behind her. “C’mon, I won’t bite,” she said. 

_Not exactly worried about that_ , Shiro mused as he straddled the bike and settled behind her on the seat.

He held his hands over her hips as she tipped the motorcycle to the side and coasted out of the parking lot. The engine kicked up a roar that turned to a purr as they cruised onto the street, and slowed around the corner. Shiro looked out at the people on the streets, emerging from the subways, returning to their apartments. He focused on the casual tilt of Allura’s head when she looked both ways down the street before crossing an intersection—how her hair peaked out from beneath the helmet, and curled around her upper back. 

Shiro leaned in and held his forearms across Allura’s toned stomach—mostly just to see if what Keith said was right. Her jacket obscured most of the tense firmness, and as they came to a stoplight, she took a split second to press a hand over Shiro’s forearms before leaning forward and preparing for takeoff again.

Green light blinked over the sheer black of her helmet as they passed under the stoplight, and cruised down West Street, bordering the Hudson River. The city lights reflected off the water in a shimmering mass of whites and blues, reds and yellows. It was a clear night, but there wasn’t a single star in the sky—the moon was nothing but a sliver, and the ripples in the water prevented it from taking the form of a reflection. The wind buffeting Shiro’s jacket stilled when the motorcycle banked to the side, and came to a halt against the sidewalk. 

His arms were still around her waist until she reached up to tear off her helmet. He pulled back and unclasped the buckle under his chin.

Allura turned her head to the side, not entirely facing him. “Would you mind if we took a walk real quick? I’ve been cooped up at the café all day,” she said.

“Sure, of course,” he blurted out quickly, passing her his helmet to lock up. As she did that, he swept his foot over the handle behind his seat and went to the meter. 

“Oh—you don’t have to pay. I can take care of that,” Allura said, but he shrugged and replied with, “I’m already over here so good luck stopping me.”

It was the first time Shiro spent time outside of The Quilted Lion—or Hunk and Lance’s apartment for that matter—with Allura. It didn’t feel nearly as odd as he thought it would. He always associated her with the place, and for good reason. The Quilted Lion was entirely her aesthetic, where she was the foundation—everything about it reflected her like the city lights did on the water. It was traditional, all while breaking the mould. Magic was only now becoming traditional—when Shiro was in grade school, magic was hardly addressed despite it becoming a huge fad. Whatever the case, it added something special to the way she did things.

They crossed West Street to get to the park on the riverside. It was a busy road, so as they ran to the break between the lanes, Allura ran after Shiro and nudged into him, nearly making them both fall into the right lane. Shiro steadied her, and threw his head back laughing at her startled expression.

The park wasn’t green by any means—in the winter, even the sparse trees and grass turned as grey as the concrete. They ran to avoid getting hit by a car, and skidded over the ice and onto the sidewalk. Allura seemed to make a beeline straight for the water, so he followed her a few paces behind, hands in his pockets. He tried to remember where exactly they were—the park was familiar enough, but the piers were another story. All of the piers in NYC were numbered, so it had to be either 45 or 46. 

Allura stepped up to the railing and put her hands on her hips. When Shiro approached, she said, “Coran and I always come down here. When I was a kid, we’d come here practically every day in the summer and share cannolis from the vendors. Now I can barely stomach them.”

“That’s what happens when you eat one too many,” he laughed, and she joined him. 

“Yeah, well, it’s one of the reasons you don’t see them at the café. That, and they’re a bitch to make. Half the time you make them, and fifteen minutes later the cream tastes stale. Who would have thought _cream_ could taste _stale_? Unbelievable.” She shook her head in disdain before scoffing and kicking her foot against the railing post. “Sorry—you probably don’t want to hear about café food when you aren’t even _at_ The Quilted Lion. It’s probably a dull topic.”

“I don’t mind. There’s a reason I love it there, you know,” he said, and hesitated when neither of them spoke for a moment. He wondered if that could come across as weird—and here she trusted him enough to give him a ride on her motorcycle. She seemed like the kind of woman who wouldn’t care whether or not she ditched him on the other side of West Village.

To cover it up, he squinted out at the end of the pier and said, “Which pier is this? Let’s go check it out—”

“Wait, Shiro,” she interrupted, hand going to his arm before he could walk off. She paused for a moment, and schooled her expression. It turned stone cold, and he thought, _Shit, I ruined it_. He’d seen enough fights to know the expression people made when they were about to start one. 

“I don’t—” she started, and backtracked quickly. “This is _really_ hard for me to say, because you’re so supportive and all with The Quilted Lion and I don’t want to ruin that. But I don’t… I don’t _care_ about you as a customer anymore.”

Her voice shook at the end, and she bit down on her lip to keep from saying anything more. Shiro turned to her fully, and felt a chill down his spine when Allura retracted her hand from his arm. She pinched her fingers together and scowled at the fencing, muttering, “Sorry—that was way out of line.”

“But—I care about you. A _lot_ , Allura,” he said, surprised that he could speak past the thrill in his veins making his heart beat faster than ever. He swallowed hard, watching her crystalline eyes tilt up to meet his. “I’ve been meaning to say something for a while now, but I never thought… _fuck_ , I thought that you wouldn’t understand. Or even _care_ about it. 

“And I mean… The Quilted Lion is your goddamn life, and I’d completely understand if I’m not exactly an option because of that. I don’t want you to give up anything, or change the way you think of me because of how I feel about you,” he said.

“And what’s that?” she asked. “How do you feel about me?”

Shiro couldn’t say the words until he lifted his arms up and around her shoulders, and held her close. The tension in her shoulders slackened, and she leant her head against his shoulder, and it was everything Shiro could ask for. “I feel like… I could love you so fucking much if you’d let me,” he said.

Her hands clenched into the fabric of Shiro’s leather jacket, and she pressed her forehead to his neck, saying, “That sounds good to me.”

  


  


“You can’t let your wrist get all floppy—that’s how you break it,” Keith said, grabbing Lance’s hands roughly and bringing them up, stationing them firmly in front of him. “Keep your fist tight, don’t go all limp like a noodle. It’s why all your hits are sloppy.” 

At this Lance scowled at him and said, “My hits aren’t sloppy.”

Keith scoffed and stepped back, rolling his eyes. “Fine, they aren’t. Don’t take huge swings either—keep everything condensed otherwise you leave openings.”

Lance nodded, so Keith stepped back and stood to the left of the punching bag. He held it steady and nodded for Lance to give his all. Lance’s abdomen was firm, shoulders broad and biceps muscular for someone who no longer worked out. Evidently he’d been a swimmer—initially went to university on a scholarship for it, but that sort of commitment didn’t fair well with his major. So, Lance quit swimming, got a job, and was paying for school in an equally difficult way. But at least it was a way that gave him time to study and do homework, and sleep approximately six hours a night.

Swimmers had a broad shoulder build, and Lance was no exception. His hips were narrow, and stayed rigid with every hit, adjusting angles, twisting his torso with each patterned hit. There was something fluid about his movements, as opposed to Keith’s sharp, calculated hits dealt with pure force. It wasn’t robotic, but instead Lance’s _right right left_ jabs came in a rhythm—a beat that—

“Give him gloves for his first time, Jesus Keith,” Shiro’s voice interrupted from behind, and suddenly a pair of bag gloves were tossed against Keith’s chest. He caught them, glancing at Shiro who quirked an eyebrow at him. “You plan on bruising his knuckles? Bit late for that, huh?”

He grabbed Lance’s wrists, which were now in resting position. His knuckles were covered with Keith’s hand wraps, but he knew those weren’t entirely effective the first few times around. It’d been a while since Keith had to deal with that. Keith frowned at them, and scowled up at Shiro. His coach dropped Lance’s wrists and went in to flick Keith on the side of the head. He dodged the hit and brushed Shiro’s hands away. “I appreciate you givin’ him lessons and all, but you’ve still got weights and cardio to do, kid. It’s Thursday, you know.”

Keith frowned at him, and watched as Shiro walked off and crossed paths with one of the other gym members. He clapped the guy on the back and commenced a conversation, so Keith turned back to Lance and waved the gloves at him. “You wanna keep going?” he asked.

Lance looked down at the gloves and back at Keith before taking them one by one to yank them on. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Keith practiced with Lance until Lance was too exhausted to go on. He sat around on top of the shallow lockers while Keith benchpressed with Nyma as a spotter, and switched positions. He glanced over the weights Nyma heaved up and down, watching Lance out of the corner of his eye. The guy was a goddamn masterpiece, sitting around without a shirt on. _This was a terrible idea. Why did I think this was a good idea?_ he thought to himself, especially whenever Nyma smirked at him and said between sharp huffs, “See somethin’ ya like, Kogane?”

“Can it, Nyma,” he hissed back. She let out a strained laugh, arms weakening over her head. She dropped the bar back onto the stand and sat up, shaking out her hands. “Cardio?”

“Not my day. Good luck with that,” she said. “I’m headin’ out. See you bright and early tomorrow, all right?” He agreed to it and watched her walk off to the showers. 

Keith did laps while Lance scoured over his mechanical physics homework. For a brief period each lap, Keith could see him backlit by the sunlight out on the streets. Allura was training a new waiter that afternoon—Thursdays tended to be slower, so it wasn’t like Lance would make much in tips anyway—so Lance had the evening to himself, and also his overflowing backpack full of homework.

When Keith finished cardio, Lance had his legs crossed and a textbook laid between his knees. Keith snatched his water bottle from beside Lance, tipped his head back, and squeezed water into his mouth. He looked over at Lance then, who reached over and pushed a few stray, damp baby hairs out of Keith’s face. “I’m getting a haircut after this,” Keith said, and instantly Lance retracted his hand with a frown.

“Wait, _what?_ Since when did you get _haircuts_?” he demanded, gawking. Keith rolled his eyes at Lance, nudging him in the knee. 

“I haven’t gotten a haircut in two years,” he replied, defensively. “It’s not exactly a _priority_ , and haircuts are expensive. It’s just that sometimes for meets and tournaments like this, Shiro wants my hair shorter. Pulling hair isn’t exactly _legal_ in a match, but it’s happened before and _sucks_.” He leant back against the locker and squirted water into his mouth. 

Lance whistled low and said, “That does sound like it sucks. Where are you getting it done?”

“The hair salon by the apartment. It’s fancy and stuff so I’m hoping they know what to do, you know? And working at The Quilted Lion helps. I have extra money to spend, so—”

“—You might as well get a decent haircut. Damn…” Lance said, before swiftly adding, “Not that your current haircut sucks or anything! I’m just saying that it’s… a bit dated. Like, you’re _barely_ able to get a good man bun going at this rate.” 

He reached over and tugged on Keith’s ponytail. He swatted Lance off, grinning a little. “You want to come with?” he asked. “You can do homework or whatever. But you don’t have to.”

“This is a monumental occasion. Of course I’m coming!” Lance exclaimed.

Keith left to wash up so the hairdresser wouldn’t be under the impression that Keith _always_ smelled like this. Shiro wished him good luck, and a few of the other guys in the gym mockingly did the same just to get on Keith’s nerves. He shoved one of them, laughing and sticking his tongue out at them before disappearing around the corner and heading down the orange-lit hallway.

They took their time walking, otherwise Keith would be nearly half an hour early to his appointment. Lance had a reading assignment from an article, so he read it aloud to Keith as they walked. He navigated Lance around and between passing people, and tugged him to a halt at intersections to wait for the walk sign. The article had something to do with the anomaly surrounding jets from super-massive black holes, and Keith remembered it simply because it astonished him that science didn’t have the answer to why they were created, or for what purpose.

Eventually they arrived at the salon, and Lance took a seat by the window and waved to Keith when he was taken around the partition and to the back room where all the work was done. Keith was always more or less indifferent about his hair—it wasn’t like he _enjoyed_ washing it, or all the upkeep for it. Half the time he just let it go greasy before deciding to take an _actual_ shower, not a rinse-down in the gym. 

So when the hairdresser clipped layers of his bangs away, and the longer edges in preparation for shaving it clean and short, Keith only felt slightly choked up. He figured that was normal when watching a part of him fall away—but then again, why should he continue to let his hair suffer when it was all dead in the first place? 

The cool air on his neck felt nice, and for once it would make sense to wear Lance’s scarf now that his hair wasn’t there to insulate it. 

The hairstylist combed her fingers through his hair and sprayed it into place before turning him towards the mirror with a final, “Ta-da! What do you think?”

Keith shrugged a little and said it looked fine. It was like a professor asking if the class had a question before the exam. Of course he had a question, but it wasn’t like he could _really_ think about it until later that night when he realized all his past, present, and future mistakes.

The black cape of doom was swept off his shoulders, along with every speck of his goddamn mullet and _fuck_ he felt exposed. Where the hell was that fucking scarf? He rubbed a hand over the fuzz on the back of his head, and then up to the longer strands of hair on top that whisked in the general direction his old bangs went to. They were out of his eyes and piled in soft waves to the side. He wondered how ridiculous of a mohawk he could pull off with this.

The hairdresser led Keith back to the front and dropped him off at the counter where he sighed and took out his wallet. In the midst of getting his card scanned, he saw someone approach from the corner of his eye, and he glanced at them, a bit bitter about it before realizing that it was just Lance. Lance’s jaw was open, and he was staring at Keith like something was terribly wrong.

Keith’s ears went red and he reached up to cover them. He wished he could crawl into the Lake Michigan-smelling sewers and die among the rats. He felt just about as hairless as one of them anyway. God, he probably looked like a thumb anyway—he could pass for a rat tail. 

The second the guy gave him the receipt, he was out of there in three seconds flat with Lance practically chasing him down. He had yet to say anything, even when he pulled Keith by the torso, hands darting to Keith’s hair. “I don’t know—I’m not really sure about it either,” he said quickly, looking everywhere but Lance as he seemed to examine every last remaining hair on his head.

“Wait—you’re kidding, right?” Lance said, stepping back and realizing that they were sort of in the way of the lunch rush. He tugged Keith to the side, underneath an art studio awning to avoid the people cruising here and there where Keith could see Lance’s smile growing. “You look _incredible!_ Like— _damn_ , you should be in a Korean fashion magazine or something! [Calvin](http://www.wavygirlhairstyles.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/hairstyle-for-asian-men.jpg)-[fucking](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/a6/c9/9b/a6c99bb0f9eebebdd3e7b6e87a83b45d.jpg)-[ _Klein_](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/7e/9b/eb/7e9beb509102fbf79e679dd618cc664a.jpg), where the hell have you been wasting _your_ time?!” 

If Keith was red before, he might as well have been a fucking tomato. He could have been standing next to a crate of strawberries and there wouldn’t have been a difference (except maybe the new hair). 

“That was a _really_ good pickup line,” was all Keith could manage, tugging the collar of his jacket up as Lance giggled and nuzzled in, pressing their noses together. “You actually like it?”

“ _Of course_! You look like such an [edgelord](http://theritualist.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/David-Beckham.jpg)—I mean, you have the perfect face-shape for it and everything!”

“I can’t believe you just called me an [edgelord](http://dankmaymays.com/sonic/edge/eat-the-pain-away.jpg).”

Lance combed his fingers through Keith’s hair again, biting his lip and watching the soft wave of Keith’s hair slip down a bit over his forehead. He was starting to feel too comfortable about this all in public. Before either of them could do anything they would regret, Keith suggested they walk the block back to his apartment where Pidge would be. Lance pursed his lips into a pout, knowing that if Pidge was home, Keith wouldn’t be willing to do anything and everything Lance wanted. At least now Lance knew what Keith felt like, having to vie for Lance’s affections when clearly the man was in love with one too many individuals. 

At the apartment, Pidge was only vaguely aware of Keith’s haircut—it wasn’t the first time she’d ever seen him with shorter hair. He figured that she figured that if he wasn’t going to talk about it, thens he wouldn’t talk about it, which led to a time during the night were Pidge narrowed her eyes at him in a way that suggested she was trying to pinpoint what was off about his appearance. 

They watched a movie that night because Pidge and Lance needed a break from the endless stream of studying for rigged exams. Lance kept smelling Keith’s hair because it had a tint of the salon aroma in it. Hair salons always smelled magic, whether or not they actually used magic. Pidge asked if Keith knew the lineup yet for the tournament. He said that he didn’t and that he wouldn’t know until after weigh ins. 

Which meant that Shiro was chastising him every day for fluctuating his weight. It didn’t help that Keith worked at The Quilted Lion. It was just an excuse at this point to eat his heart out with Coran’s flavored pancakes, chicken Alfredo sauce, and the classic BLT. Keith hated being cutoff from his obsessions such as food. Throughout the movie Lance and Pidge shared an entire goddamn pint of Quilted Lion gelato and Keith had to hold back on the temptation to devour it all.

That night before Pidge went to bed, Keith tossed his hand wraps into his hamper along with his athletic shorts and socks. He rifled through all of his shirts and separated the whites. He knew Shiro was probably holding back on him and Nyma with new clothes for the tournament, but it wouldn’t hurt to wash them all now. The laundromat was down the street, so he requested Pidge give him her dirty clothes to wash.

“Don’t hurt my bras. They’re expensive and they need cold water— _don’t_ put them in the drier. It ruins the wire,” she chastised, jabbing a finger at him before thrusting her hamper into his hand. “Got it?”

“Sure. What about your lingerie?” he jested, and earned a bunch in the arm for it.

Lance giggled from the foyer, and earned a glare from Pidge before she stormed to her room and aggressive said, “Good _night_.”

“You want me to come with you?” Lance asked as Keith started tying up his shoes. 

“You don’t have to. I know you still have homework to do,” he said. “And it’s just the laundromat. Nothing exciting.”

“Aw, but _everything_ is exciting when I’m with you!” he cooed, which led Keith to roll his eyes.

“That’s the honeymoon phase talkin’,” he joked, shoving Lance a little. “I’ll be back later.”

They kissed for a brief moment, and as they pulled away from one another, Lance asked, “Text me when you’re on your way back?” Keith agreed, and suffered another hair-ruffle before he was able to actually leave.

  


The walk to the laundromat was uneventful until Keith was actually in there. The place was a bit dingy—most laundromat were, that seemed to be the stereotype anyway. There was a huge “24 HOUR!” sign stuck to the front window, where Keith could see the cars passing by. He sat by one of the window seats, counting the cars with the background noise of machines whirring behind him. At least it was warm in there.

Keith sighed, calmer than he usually was before tournaments. He could see his reflection in the window staring back at him, so eventually he turned away and crossed his arms, considering Professor Kolivan’s advice. 

It didn’t take much for Keith to meditate now. He seemed to have the general “hang of it,” and he tried it on his own enough to tell the difference. Professor Kolivan always made the experience… _vibrant_ and _exciting_. The sounds, feelings, and impressions of his memories seemed so real when Professor Kolivan talked him through it. So in the laundromat he just went through the usual means of tagging memories and storing them in his back pocket for later. They were trying to sift through every time he used magic unknowingly—it would take _years_ to get through it all, since it was so subtle for Keith, so they went with the basics. His magic when fighting. It meant that for the most part, he relived the fights he used it in. 

It caused his adrenaline to spike in the middle of the goddamn laundromat. It wasn’t like popping a boner in public, so it wasn’t all that embarrassing, but Keith could feel his heartbeat pick up, and the tension of his nails digging into his palms. Sitting around just made him anxious—like he should be up and on guard—so he got up and paced the empty lanes of washing machines. He wondered if it looked like he was in a trance—sleeping walking, maybe. He could clearly see where he was, but… his brain was just elsewhere.

He was watching a match between him and Lotor. They’d been ring partners for most of their relationship, which made everything a bit more competitive than it should have been. For whatever reason they were under the impression that whoever could clobber the other the hardest was the winner— it led to a few broken noses and bloody lips, and they were evenly matched so long as Keith didn’t use magic.

He’d get fed up with Lotor. Lotor loved clinches, which Shiro always broke up, but they were infuriating. They never got anywhere, and Keith would grapple with the back of Lotor’s hair where his heavy black ponytail was, and shove him roughly to the side. 

Lotor staggered to the side, laughing. “Look at you! You’re pissed,” he said, voice slurred around his mouthguard. “How adorable.”

Keith seethed at him. “I told you not to call me that—”

“A-dor-a-ble,” Lotor mocked, practically singing. Those watching the match from close up laughed, and thinking Lotor was distracted by it, Keith went in and went to slam his gloved fist into the side of Lotor’s head. His boyfriend ducked back and parried to the left, a hop in his step. His expression steeled, no longer messing around, especially when Keith was using all his force now. 

Keith was on the offense. He rammed hit after hit into Lotor’s forearms, gloves, trying to find a break between them. For a second Lotor faltered, and a moment later something hit him hard in the ankles and took Keith to the ground. His head bounced off the mat, and the guys outside of the ring went, “OOH!”

When Lotor came down to pull Keith back up, Keith wasn’t even thinking. He didn’t even have that much momentum on the ground, but he swung his fist up anyway and absolutely _clobbered_ Lotor in the jaw. The force sent Lotor instantly to the ground, grappling for a hold on rubber railings. Keith’s chest heaved, the force of delivering such a hit having him on his stomach. 

He pushed himself up just as Lotor said, “You little shit!” and Shiro shouted, “All right! That’s enough of you two for today—get cleaned up.”

Keith was seething in the laundromat, feeling a tingling sensation in his fist, followed by the raw hiss of something spewing mist onto the front of his shirt. He blinked, dispelling the memory only to confront a completely dented washing machine. The top lid was entirely concave now—the corner of it displaying a crumpled depression and liquid spilling over the edges. Keith stumbled away from it and bumped into the wall of dryers behind him. 

He looked both ways—thankful that the place was empty. There were cameras though—he couldn’t have dented in a goddamn _washing machine_. Keith ran to his washers and hastily grabbed Pidge’s clothes and his own, and booked it out of the laundromat, jacket barely on. 

On the way out he bumped into an elderly lady and apologized quickly. He faintly heard a soft, “Dear Lord, what happened here?” when she went into the laundromat. Keith was still breathing hard, storming down the sidewalk and hoping he wasn’t losing his mind. Being able to destroy an entire washing machine wasn’t possible. It just _wasn’t possible_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Keith is a motherfriggin [edgelord](http://i1.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/001/133/937/c66.jpg) now.
> 
> Thoughts on the title of this chapter after getting this far lol. Also I had [this](http://image.dhgate.com/0x0/f2/albu/g2/M00/66/45/rBVaGlZiZImAU8KUAAUjtZd9GyI635.jpg) picture as reference backup but it seemed too emotional and soft-emo for Keith.
> 
> My dudes I love to rant about writing and theories. Chat with me over on my [Tumblr](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/) (if you dare) :D


	16. Round One

“I would have gotten you both new shoes, but you would have had to break them in about a month ago so your current ones should suffice,” Shiro explained as both Nyma and Keith sized up their new uniforms. Nyma plucked hers off the desk and held it up—it was a one-piece with a makeshift elastic belt. It was black with gold lining, and came topped with golden hand wraps and a matching hair tie.

“Nice work, Shirogane,” Nyma said with a smirk. “Mind if I strip and shimmy into this?”

“I’m gonna have to pass on that. Wait till you get to the lockers,” Shiro said, eyes narrowing. “Same goes for you, Keith.”

“Damn,” he laughed. 

He lifted up his shorts and held them to his hips. The waistband was golden and elastic, with subtle padding and a cinched, pinstripe pattern to it. The fabric was light, and blood red. Nyma had a matching robe for hers, and as did Keith. His happened to be red and gold and stupidly cliche.

“You tryna turn me into Rocky Balboa or something?” Keith laughed as he shrugged on the robe. Nyma threw her head back laughing, saying, “All you need is the _Italian Stallion_ on the bum!”

“‘ _Ey yo Adrian!_ ’”

“ _You_ were the one who said your favorite color was red,” Shiro accused.

“Oh, so you’re telling me Nyma said her’s was black?” he exclaimed, and Nyma snickered from the side. “Oh my God, you said your favorite color was black.”

“It is though!” she argued, sticking her tongue out at Keith.

It was barely even morning yet. Dusk was settling in, and the streetlights were just turning off when Shiro, Keith, and Nyma left the gym, and settled into that rusty old BMW. Early mornings were always a weird phenomenon. The entire day just didn’t seem real, especially when they arrived at the venue and set to work. They had to arrive before 7AM, so Keith reassured Lance and Pidge that they wouldn’t have to show up until later in the day. Shiro had a few spare tickets to lend, and gave them three in case Hunk decided to join the party. 

The day started out slow with weigh ins. For the most part Keith and Nyma kept to themselves in the hallway with Shiro. Nyma’s thick braid of blond hair peaked out from the golden halo of her hood, and the light in the hallway cast a shadow over her eyes whenever she looked at a passing opponent. Unlike the full-professional matches, the genders weren’t divided. There were other female competitors that Keith noted—they were beefy and tall—a head or two taller than Keith, even. After spending so much time fighting Nyma, he was over the stigma of, “I don’t punch girls.” 

Lotor had been under that impression when Nyma and Keith became friends. He thought it was brutish of Keith to fight with her. 

The thought of Lotor reminded Keith of the washing machine incident the night before. Keith glanced over at Shiro, who was on the phone with a hand in the pocket of his leather jacket. No matter what Keith said about it, Shiro didn’t think it changed anything. It changed everything.

He didn’t want to turn someone’s face into that washing machine.

Kogane was called out, so he left to head to the room. He passed easily—he was always a middleweight class since Shiro started his regimen. Before Shiro, he fluctuated between a lightweight-welterweight class because he didn’t know how to gain muscle weight properly and balance it with his irregular meals. Moving to NYC really screwed up his food intake.

There were tough opponents in every weight class. Which was why with Keith working at The Quilted Lion and excessive strength training, he passed for the lighter side of the heavyweight class. He wouldn’t be able to fight Zarkon without making that class anyway.

It’d be the first time Keith fought officially in heavyweight—but that happened to be the sort of opponents he went up against in the underground fights. Underground fights Shiro set Keith up with weren’t regulated by class, so he figured he could manage well enough. Being on the lighter side gave him the advantage of agility the larger fellas didn’t have.

Shiro laughed and gave him a clap on the back, saying, “I told you you could make it!”

“Yeah, after making me regret every chicken Alfredo I ate. I bet you that’s what got me here in the first place,” he joked, knowing Shiro claimed it all on his extreme weight training. Keith knew Shiro _definitely_ blamed Keith’s toned muscles for it. 

Nyma passed at a welterweight, and tackled Keith and Shiro in her excitement about it. She told off one of the opponents next in line and nearly started a fight over it until Shiro dragged her away by the back of her hood as she hollered, “I’ll see ya in the match after I _pound your face in!_ _LET ME SEE YOU FUCK WITH THIS!_ ”

“I’d fuck with that!” the guy yelled back, laughing.

“Try me!” she yelled, obscenely grabbing her crotch like she was about to do a Michael Jackson move, but Shiro yanked her hands away and dragged her around the corner.

“Christ, Nyma,” Keith said, laughing behind his hand as Shiro rubbed his hands over his temples. Nyma shook away from him, bouncing on the balls of her feet, itching to do something other than sit around and wait for everyone else to get weighed in.

“What? You _know_ Shiro didn’t recruit me because I was a good fighter at first. He liked my spark, ain’t that right, bossman?” she said, flashing him her signature grin and nudging Shiro in the arm.

“Which I partly regret, but I’ve moved on from it,” he admitted with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nyma giggled, pushing Keith a little. He rolled his eyes and flicked up the hood on his robe as they left the hall of waiting boxers.

There were a lot of different branches considering the different weight classes, which meant Keith wouldn’t likely fight Nyma—something they’d both been dreading, but the chances were slim to begin with. Unless Keith miraculously lost weight (while working at The Quilted Lion, for that matter), or Nyma suddenly gained twenty-some pounds, then they wouldn’t fight one another. It would make their break times more entertaining, though, with the chance of watching one another fight.

They sat around for an hour. It was 9AM now, and Shiro was strict on not letting them converse with the other opponents. Weigh ins were often a time where competitors argued and verbally fought with their opponents, which Keith was more than privy to before Shiro practically scraped him out of the dirt, shined him off, and gave him work to do. He was more than grateful for a small corner to himself where he could stretch with Nyma or unravel his jumprope.

He was just about to do as much when he heard a familiar voice from afar. He heard that voice every day at the apartment.

“Pidge is here,” he told Nyma, who instantly perked up.

“Ooh! Pidge! I’ll go get her,” she said, throwing on her robe and running for it. Keith tried to stop her, but it was too late. She was already up and about.

“I’m surprised Pidge even got up this early,” he confessed, glancing at Shiro who shrugged, perched on a stool and typing something into his phone.

“I wouldn’t be too surprised,” he commented, and Keith raised an eyebrow at him. As if _Shiro_ knew Pidge better than _him_.

Keith snapped out his jumprope and bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment before kicking the rope up and setting a quick pace. Shiro got up to answer a phone call, so Keith happened to be the first to see Pidge cruising through the doorway and bounding towards him. He laughed, and warned her to stay back a few paces—he didn’t want to hit her with the rope.

“I brought some people! Well, Lance brought them, I mean,” she said, and Keith hesitated jumping, his pace breaking and causing his jumprope to come to a halt. 

He’d recognize that pure white hair anywhere. 

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, nearly dropping the rope handles as Allura stepped into the room hesitantly, smiling patiently to Nyma, who was talking about whatever with Lance walking behind them. He reached up and waved to Keith, who could barely manage to function when Allura finally looked at him—of course she didn’t recognize him at first. He wasn’t in The Quilted Lion kitchen shirt, for one matter, and the other being the fact that his hair was cut and he was in his boxing uniform. 

Keith looked frantically at where Shiro disappeared out the other side of the room. _Double shit_ , he mused dreadfully.

“Keith—I—You cut your hair!” she exclaimed. Keith noted that she was definitely dressed like herself, but definitely not dressed for the occasion. Ankle-long dresses didn’t seem to be the boxing-arena style these days. “It looks… _really_ good. I like it.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice unintentionally bland as Nyma looked between the both of them, and Lance stepped up to hold his arm.

“I convinced her to close The Quilted Lion for the day! Coran and Hunk are outside—we’re planning on swapping places in between matches,” he explained.

“How did you manage—? It’s a _Friday_ ,” Keith stressed, eyebrows pinching together. Allura waved her hand dismissively. Pidge was still beaming at all of them like some overexcited child.

“Oh, I know—but a day never hurt anyone!” she said, clapping her hands onto her legs. “And when I managed to weasel the information out of Hunk this morning before opening, I just had to come and see! I don’t know _anything_ about boxing, and since you work for me, I feel like I should support you in any way I…”

She broke off, eyes flickering behind Keith. Her smile dropped for a split second, but barely came back the same way. Keith cringed internally, and pointedly glared at Lance, who donned a worried look. _Good, he should be worried_ , Keith hissed internally. If this didn’t manage to ruin Shiro’s chances, he didn’t know _what_ would.

“Takashi?” Allura squeaked out, hand going to her lips. 

Keith looked back at where Shiro stood, floored, in the partly-open back door. There was someone behind him, and after a split second he waved the person off—a turf accountant—saying that he’d talk to them later. He turned back to them, paler than ever, and stuffing his phone into his back pocket. 

“Allura, what are you doing here?” he asked, brow tense. 

“I… um—” she started, words fizzling out, so Lance saved her.

“Hunk caved and told Allura that Keith had a big boxing tournament today. So her and Coran came to watch—Hunk too, he’s outside though. We’re planning on swapping out—uh… between… never mind,” Lance said, scratching the back of his head when Shiro’s sharp look cut him off.

“Well,” Allura said, sharp and almost cutting to the point where Keith visibly cringed. “This explains a lot about why Keith comes in every now and then with a fucking black eye and a split lip.”

“Allura—” Shiro started, stepping up to them and shutting the door behind him. Allura turned partially away from them, as if to make a run for it.

“You can’t blame Shiro for that!” Keith blurted out. “ _I’m_ the one fighting—he’s just my coach!”

“So what?” she countered. “Next are you going to tell me you aren’t even related?”

Neither of them said anything, and Keith glanced briefly at Shiro. It was enough to gauge that he was pissed as all hell and trying to hide it behind his tense jaw. He put his hands in his pockets to keep them from seeing how his fists were clenched.

Allura looked between them and shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she bit out. Shiro looked away from her—it was the sort of scenario Keith expected him to argue in. He didn’t expect his coach to stand there and take it. “I’m only here for Keith because he works for me. Afterwards—” 

When she hesitated, Keith knew she was looking at him, and his chest seized up at the implication. Now he knew why it was so difficult for Shiro to fight back. He could barely think straight at the thought of Allura threatening to fire him. 

“Please don’t fire him,” Pidge said quietly, catching her off guard. 

“Excuse me?” she all but hissed at Pidge. “I don’t remember you having the authority to tell me what to do.”

Pidge faltered for a split second before steeling her expression. “Keith hasn’t done anything wrong though—so what he’s got two jobs? It’s what he _does_ ,” she insisted. “And he’s been learning magic for you so he can cook better and shit. And you’re just gonna fire him? _You’re_ the one who sent him to that professor in the first place.”

She hesitated, at which point Lance shook his head and said, “Whoa—wait a minute—what’d she just say? Did I hear that right?”

Keith rolled his eyes with a sigh. Allura looked at him, but he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a second. “I suppose I’ve already invested a bit too much in you… Fine, you can keep working at my café. Just don’t let all _this_ get in the way of it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said quickly, the tension in his chest vanishing almost instantly. “I won’t let it get the way. I promise.”

She offered a small smile to him. “Good. Hunk said he wanted to see your first match so I’m just here to wish you luck. I’ll see you in the second round then,” she said, clapping a hand on his shoulder before turning away and walking off. She didn’t even look at Shiro.

Pidge looked after her, and back at Keith, and then back to Allura. “We should probably catch up to her. I think the brackets are just getting posted,” she said, and Keith nodded, rubbing her hair all the wrong way as she gave him a side hug. “Good luck! I’ll see you out there.”

“Keep Lance and Hunk in sight at all times. Don’t let her get trampled,” he added to Lance, who nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Nyma awed from the sidelines, and Keith glared at her when Lance and Pidge were a sufficient distance away.

He was hesitant to even look at Shiro. He didn’t want to think about just how much that hurt to have Allura act like that towards him. It reminded him of the ache in his chest, thinking about how Lance would react to something like this. At least his scenario turned out all right.

Nyma whispered, “I think he’s broken. Say something.” 

Keith sighed and looked at Shiro, who stood with a hand on his hip and his fingers over his eyes. As if knowing that Keith was looking at him, he took in a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling before saying, “Brackets are up. Let’s see when your first matches are on.”

“Shiro—” Keith started, but retracted it the instant Shiro pegged him with that harsh, stoic look. _Shit, that’s no good_.

“Come on,” he ordered, heading to the back door and leading the way out. Nyma passed Keith and offered an anxious look before turning to face the walkway. Keith followed after her, feeling somewhat hollow. He couldn’t let this make his day shit. It’d ruin everything.

Ten thousand dollars were on the line.

  


  


Keith’s first match was with an amateur boxer who was just starting out. He always hated going up against those fellas, given the fact that he used to be one of them, and always hated getting beat to a pulp within the first round. That was exactly what happened: Keith took the kid out within the first two minutes of the match with a stone-cold knockout. He barely got a hit on him. It was just too easy.

The ref called the match and held Keith’s hand up for the audience to see. After the kid was up and moving again, Keith went over and shook hands with him before wandering back to his corner. He shrugged on the robe Shiro tossed to him, and spat out his mouthguard. He looked up to the stands, and beyond the light shining on the pit, he could see the people talking and filling the room with general chatter. He saw someone get up and jump around—a big fella with black hair. That had to be Hunk, so he waved in that direction.

“Weeding out the weaklings. I’m guessing your next match will be much of the same,” Shiro said as Keith unraveled his hand wraps and tucked them into the pockets of his robe. “Don’t get too cocky though. Save the tosses for later, and with a ref that doesn’t call them out in the rules.”

“Got it,” he agreed, testing his fingers out and stretching them as they headed out of the arena and to the back hallway where a lot of the competitors were sitting around with their coaches and other gym members. Keith kept his hood up and stayed close to Shiro’s back as they left to meet up with Nyma.

Nyma’s match was in a different arena—each fighting pit had two mats separated by a wall, with the audience raised up and surrounding the pit. They were the shape of a football field but a small fraction of the size. Nyma’s match butted up to the end of Keith’s, so they got there just in time to meet up with Pidge, who ran off on her own when Lance went to escort Hunk to the restroom. 

“I can’t believe he left you alone—after I _specifically told him—_ ” Keith started, furious, only to be cut off with a quick, “Ah-ah-ah!

“That is _not_ what you told him. You told him to make sure I didn’t get trampled,” she corrected him, shaking her finger. “Which I _didn’t_ , and so he kept his word.”

Keith grumbled about how keeping her in Lance’s sight was general knowledge, but Pidge waved him off in favor of holding out a bin of popcorn, which Shiro quickly shooed away and ordered Keith not to eat until he said so. The last thing Keith needed was to randomly throw up in the middle of a match off of adrenaline and overall excessive excitement. But either way, Shiro took a huge handful and ate it piece-by-piece as he said, “I’m gonna go down there now. You two stay put.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Pidge said cheerfully, saluting Shiro as he stepped out of the stands and gave Pidge a mute scowl before heading to the nearest exit. As soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “I feel bad.”

“Same…” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Popcorn?”

“Hell yeah.” She passed him a few pieces, and he munched on them slowly as they watched the competitors warm up. Nyma was stretching against the wall when Shiro showed up in the pit and met with the other coach and the ref. The match started soon after.

“Keith! Nice hairstyle—real posh.” _Coran_ , Keith thought instinctively, and looked behind him to find the bright orange-haired man in a nice polka-dotted shirt and a goddamn beanie. He was wearing a beanie. _Holy shit, who is this man_? 

Keith smiled at him, saying, “Thanks. I like your hat.”

“Really? I knitted it—I could make you one too, if you’d like,” he suggested, and honestly Keith was tempted to take him up on that offer. 

Hunk hunkered down beside Coran, slightly behind Pidge so he could lean over and grab a few bits of popcorn to divvy between him and Coran. He leaned over to Keith and randomly kissed the top of his head, saying, “Lance told me to pass that on. And also, I brought some Homos if anyone gets hungry. And also, Keith, if you get tired or anythin’—”

“—a Homo can get you goin’ real fast,” Pidge finished, and reached her hand back for a high five. 

Keith glared at them and said, “I hate you guys so much.” He was hung up on the fact that Lance wanted the kiss “passed on,” which suggested that he gave Hunk a kiss on the head as well. He no longer felt special.

Coran howled with laughter, just a second before the buzzer went off. He yelped a little and asked what was going on, to which Keith explained was the match starting. It led to an entire conversation of why the hell they were at this match to begin with—Coran didn’t know Nyma at all.

Nyma was up against a fella with a similar stocky build, but not nearly as quick of feet. Nyma practically danced circles around him—she loved to play with her prey—before taking him down in the first round with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. Keith cringed a little, knowing that sort of force would make her shin rattle like nothing else. Pidge hollered from beside Keith, and asked why they didn’t call the match.

“Because the timer went off, and it wasn’t a knockout,” Keith explained. “But Nyma got a few points for the kick because it was executed well.”

“What are the points for?”

“At the end of each round the ‘winner’ gets an additional ten points. The judges can score the win on the boxer they feel dealt the most damage. If there’s no knockout, it can be decided by who has the most points—or whoever lands the most successful hits. Shiro keeps track of all of the points at the end of each match and has our stats listed and everything,” he explained. “Kicks score higher than straights.”

“Straights?”

“Just… common punches? I guess?” he said. “The other guy does a lot of those because he doesn’t have enough upper body strength to pull off crazy uppercuts and stuff.

“And that’s Shiro down there?” Coran commented, leaning forward a bit. Shiro was on their side of the pit, so the railing partially obscured him. “And he’s your coach?”

“Yeah. I’ve been with him for nearly three years now,” he confessed, glancing back at Coran to see what he meant by it. Was he on Allura’s side? Was he inquiring out of spite or out of pure curiosity? When Coran tried, he was _really_ difficult to understand, and this was one such moment. His expression was stoic, fingers tugging at his beard as the match went on.

Keith wasn’t much of a spectator, but evidently Pidge and Hunk were. They’d hoot and holler, and near the end Pidge was on her feet screaming. Keith winced a little, but at least Pidge was cheering for the right team. Nyma took her opponent out near the middle of the second round, and the ref called the match. Nyma helped the guy up to his feet and gave him a clap on the back and a “Good match,” before heading over to where Shiro was. He tossed her robe at her, and she slipped it on. 

She had a black eye from the match, but she could hold off on healing it for another match or two—as long as her next match didn’t turn into a disaster. Keith brushed a hand through his hair and asked if Pidge could show him the roster.

Pidge led the way, and together all four of them marched out to the hallway where people were mingling in between fights, getting to a different pit, et cetera. The bracket system was posted on a huge bulletin board, with names pinned to the surface. Keith would be going against Ulaz next—how unfortunate—but that wasn’t the name he was interested in. He needed to find Zarkon.

Zarkon wasn’t even on his side of the bracket. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, walking over to it and glaring at the number of steps each of them would have to take to get to the top spot. He needed to fight Zarkon. He _needed_ to.

“What is it? Isn’t that good?” Pidge asked. “He pummeled you last time—the chances you’ll go up against him now are slimmer.”

Keith rubbed his hands over his face with a sigh, saying, “ _Yes_ , but so much for payback. If he doesn’t make it to the finals—I mean, it makes my chances of winning a bit higher but…”

“Who’s this fellow you two are blabbering about?” Coran asked, hands on his hips and surveying the names. “Knyaz?”

“No, Zarkon. He’s one of the top fighters. He destroyed Keith just before New Year’s and Keith wants payback,” Pidge explained. “It’s a good thing Hunk didn’t go to that match.”

Hunk was munching on a Homo sapien when Pidge said this, and he perked up and nodded quickly. “Mm-hm, such a good thing.”

Keith and Pidge debated the prospects of his side of the brackets. Sendak was on his side of the bracketing system, but farther up. If both of them prevailed, Keith wouldn’t go against him for another two rounds. Keith sighed, checking the time and reassuring himself he had about ten more minutes before he had to head in. 

“There you are,” Shiro’s voice sounded not too far away. Keith looked over and found his boss weaving between bystanders, Nyma trailing behind him. She beamed at them all, flexing her “big guns” and sending Pidge into a tizzy. She congratulated Nyma profusely, which led Nyma to flip her hair and say, “I know I’m perfect.”

Shiro nodded to Coran, who offered a smile. At least they were on good terms, even if Allura wasn’t. Shiro reached into his back pocket and pulled out two tickets. “I swung a few extras—so… you don’t have to swap in and out all day.” He passed them to Hunk, since he was closest, and he marveled at them like they were made of gold or some shit. 

“Keith, you’re up. Let’s get going,” Shiro ordered, nodding towards the corridor that would take them to the pit. Keith looked back at them, and Nyma gave him an encouraging thumbs up. Pidge punched him in the arm, giving him her good luck. Hunk stepped up and squeezed Keith into a tight hug, and Keith just sort of melted into the warm sweater Hunk was wearing that day. 

So maybe Lance was right about Hunk’s quality hugs. It didn’t mean Keith would admit it out loud, right?

Keith waved to them on his way out, and Coran shouted, “Look for us in the stands!”

“Will do!” he yelled back before spinning around and taking off after Shiro, the run tugging his hood back and reminding him just how much he loved tournaments. He loved this constant adrenaline rush he got every time.

Shiro steadied him with an arm around his shoulders, getting him to focus on the task at hand. Keith versus Ulaz. He could do this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't too farfetched putting Keith in heavyweight, since I did a lot of research on professional boxers and assuming Keith's at least 5' 11", he could pass for [Jürgen Brähmer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%BCrgen_Br%C3%A4hmer) or [Lucian Brute](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucian_Bute) in terms of body build, height, and weight. But Brähmer is a bit on the lankier side, so Brute might be more accurate (lol, brute). 
> 
> Though I think in professional matches they stick to ONLY their weight class, NOT the subgroups of it. So Keith's a light heavyweight, and then there's cruiserweight, and LASTLY heavyweight, which has an unlimited weight range. So usually I don't think he'd go against cruiserweights or heavyweights? BUT I'M BENDING THE RULES HERE I JUST WANT HIM TO FIGHT ZARKON AND SENDAK. I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU GUYS.


	17. Deadly Precision

Ulaz’s breath smelled like smoke when he came up to shake hands with Keith. The ref stood between them, but all Keith could see was that cold smirk on Ulaz’s lips just before they separated. One wink and a sly grin later, and Keith was damn near close to exploding. He was prepared to destroy the guy who risked destroying his relationship with Lance, Hunk, Pidge—it was because of _this guy_ that Keith was ever prepared to tell Pidge anything about this.

And for that, he supposed he was grateful, but it was infuriating at the time of the event.

The buzzer went off, and they were on each other in an instant. Keith faked left and dropped back, the fist over his head skimming just an inch or two above his nose. He sprung back up in time to parry to the right and dodge another hit. Ulaz’s towering, muscular build made him an easy target, but the last thing Keith expected was for that sluggish guy in the alley to be fast enough to avoid hits, and deliver ones just as quick. 

Sweat collected on Keith’s forehead and chest by the end of the first round. It was ridiculous because they went through an entire round like this—constant movement and fast punches—but in round two it was just going to get even more absurd. 

Eventually one of them would have to bend—

—and Keith was certain it wouldn’t be him.

Ulaz took a split second break from battering Keith, long enough to huff a breath of air, and be clobbered in the jaw for it. Keith slammed his fist in, and the second hit would have been successful had Ulaz not brushed Keith’s arm aside in the same time that he ducked to the left to avoid the hit. Keith came in with his non-dominant hand, pounding into the side of Ulaz’s defenses with short, severe hits before finally leveling up and digging his knee into Ulaz’s side.

The second Ulaz staggered to the side, Keith kicked up and raised his fist, slamming it down across Ulaz’s skull and ramming him face-first into the mat. He hit the ground with a resounding _thud_ , and the crowd went insane. There were more people this time around, and Keith wasn’t surprised. It was starting to look like his usual turnout.

Keith backed away from Ulaz, watching the man struggle on the first count. He pushed himself up to one knee, and the second his other knee came off the ground, the count ended. Keith waited for a moment as Ulaz got up, and squared himself against Keith, breathing hard, eye swelling up and red.

His shoulders tensed up, fists raised and eyes targeting Ulaz under the spotlights, and the sounds of people echoing around them. He could see Shiro off to the side, yelling at him with his fists in the air. Keith picked up nothing more than a few words of it before the actions registered, and he was flying forward on quick, nimble feet.

His torso twisted, shoulder going back, leaning to the left when Ulaz came in for a hit to the right. He grabbed Ulaz’s arm and heaved it up, going against all the strength Ulaz was putting in to counteract him. He slammed his fist into Ulaz’s stomach.

Keith didn’t even need any momentum.

He hurled Ulaz off his feet—

—and twisting his entire body, flung Ulaz upside-down across the mat. His arms followed through, watching only vaguely the look of shock on his opponent’s face as he flipped across the ground, and slammed into the side of the pit wall.

The refs and coaches had to scurry away to avoid the toss, and as Keith stood, still partially following through with the throw, his shoulders heaved and he collapsed a little, staggering to get to his feet after exerting that much force. Ulaz was down for the count, and the buzzer went off. 

Shiro was screaming from the sidelines, hands in the air yelling, “ _YES! YEEESS!_ ” The ref came up and held Keith’s hand up before letting him go off to where Shiro’s arms were out. He picked Keith straight up off the ground and spun him, setting him down to clap him on the back. The stands were crowded, onlookers leaning over the railing and rioting to get close. 

Keith laughed, brushing away the moisture collecting on his bruised cheekbone. 

When Ulaz got back up, Keith went over and clasped onto his hand, saying, “Good match.”

“Shoulda seen that toss comin’,” Ulaz said with a coarse laugh, rubbing onto flank as his manager guided him off the turf.

Keith and Shiro weren’t quite off the mat yet when he heard his name being called from the entrance. He turned in time to see Lance barge through, practically prancing across the mat and flinging himself at Keith. Keith was forced to catch him, regardless of how gross, sticky, and sweaty he was from the match. 

“Nice goin’! You completely chucked him across the mat—that was great!” Lance all but shouted in his ear. Keith couldn’t help himself—he smiled regardless of how much it strained his bruised cheek, and let himself be kissed by Lance in the middle of the goddamn mat with everyone watching.

He squeezed onto Lance’s torso, and after separating briefly, he went back in and mockingly dipped Lance. A few whistles came from the doorway—Hunk or Pidge, most likely—and Lance giggled against Keith’s lips, leaning back with a satisfied _pop_. “Your breath tastes stale right now,” he admitted.

“The mouthguard does that,” Keith confessed, shaking the case in his other hand as he lifted Lance back up and guided him off the mat.

Everyone was there now, including Allura. She seemed far less social now that Coran was talking with Shiro about such-and-such—boxing, mostly. “I used to box professionally back in the day. I had a bad nose injury and never went back,” he was explaining when Keith and Lance approached. “So I train other fighters like Keith and Nyma at my gym. It’s on the East Side, near Keith’s apartment.”

“When was that? That you bashed your nose?” Coran asked.

“Nearly ten years now, I’d say,” a female voice interrupted from just a few paces down the hall. Keith recognized Shay better now this time around—especially knowing her wild sense of style. Her leggings were bright red this time around, accented with a black and gold skirt and a baggy white shirt—clearly she knew about the costumes before Keith or Nyma did.

“Shay!” Nyma exclaimed, “My savior! Can you patch this up for me? Please?” Nyma put her face up near Shay’s, pointing to her black eye. Shay laughed nervously, waving her off as she approached Shiro.

“Face injuries aren’t my specialties, you know that. I was called in to help Ulaz fix up the bruising on his spine from when Keith tossed him. That was excellent, by the way,” Shay complimented, winking at Keith. He rolled his eyes back at her. “And Lance, nice to see you again.”

“Great seeing you too,” Lance said, beaming at her. He gasped a little and dragged Hunk and Pidge in. “This is Keith’s roommate, Pidge, and Hunk’s my buddy from school and stuff. They came to cheer Keith on.”

“How lovely,” she said, round cheeks framing her sharp eyes. “I’m Shay, a friend of Shiro’s.”

Keith glanced over at Allura, admittedly a bit selfishly—he was hoping to find some level of intrigue in her face, but she was looking at her phone. Coran, though, seemed to catch the hint. “How do you know Shiro?”

“I’m an ER nurse on the weekdays—I have off Fridays through Sundays, which is when Shiro’s fighters have matches. I help pair up the bad injuries. But when Shiro was fighting I helped repair his nose and all that—” she was saying, and Keith could tell she had a lot more to say, but Shiro cleared his throat and suggested she get to Ulaz before the man keeled over and died. “Oh, right. I can just talk for hours sometimes. I’ll see you all later, hopefully! Well, not _hopefully—_ I hope Keith and Nyma don’t get terribly injured. Anyway, bye!”

She stepped around their group and headed into the pit where Ulaz was sitting beside his manager, an icepack to his face. Keith unraveled his hand wraps as he looked after her, and turned back to the group just as Allura cleared her throat.

“Shay seemed lovely,” she said, looking pointedly at Shiro before making a move to walk away.

This time Shiro seemed to find the will to talk. “Shay and I are barely acquaintances—she just helps patch up the members of my gym.”

“She must be mistaken then—I distinctly remember her saying you two were _friends_ ,” she countered. Keith could see Lance was about to interrupt the fight, but Allura was already walking away to the front lobby where the brackets were. Keith’s eyes were wide, lips pursed and gaze going between Shiro and Allura until Shiro finally rubbed a hand over his eyes with a huge sigh. 

“Nyma, let’s get to your pit,” he ordered.

“Yessir!” she answered, eager to get out of there. She hurried off before anyone was able to bring up what just happened. Keith was still visibly cringing from it.

  


  


Keith and Lance watched as one of the workers rearranged the brackets the next day, sticking a slip of paper titled KOGANE onto the next bracket. He’d either go against Sendak or Prorok. Sendak or Prorok.

He didn’t have time to watch Sendak’s match to see the outcome. Secretly he hoped Prorok would advance—but wouldn’t that mean Prorok was better than the beast Keith observed in the gym all those weeks ago? The thought made a shiver go down his spine. Sendak would be tough, but he could manage it. That’s what Lance kept telling him anyway, right?

As the worker checked her phone, Keith turned to Lance, who was humming some unknown tune under his breath and titling his head to and fro—completely out of it, but adorable nonetheless. How could he manage to look and act so innocently? Perhaps it had something to do with his oversized jacket, or maybe the beanie he stole from the top of Coran’s head. 

Keith started swaying his shoulders to the beat, and since they were linked at the arms, they both started swinging to and fro. Lance started putting words to the beat, kicking his foot up and twisting around Keith in a circle. They barely got all the way around before Keith bumped straight into Pidge, his hood falling back as he jolted out to grab her before she fell over.

“ _Christ_ , what the hell is going on? What’s with the dancing?” she asked, steadying her soda cup and glancing at the brackets before looking at Keith and Lance.

“We’re waiting to see who I fight next, and Lance was singing,” he explained, looking over at Lance just as the worker wrote out the next name. The instant she put down a huge “S,” Keith knew he was screwed. 

Pidge cursed under her breath and held up her soda to Keith. “Here. You’ll need it,” she said. He took it with a soft thanks before downing a few gulps of it. He rarely drank soda these days, so it burned and made his eyes water a bit.

“You know what? It’ll be fine, it’s not like… you don’t _know_ anything about him, right? We spent, like, two hours at the gym _watching_ him,” Lance said quietly, so no one could overhear. The worker lady walked off as if she hadn’t just given Keith the biggest roadblock of his life when it came to fighting Zarkon.

“This match overlaps with Nyma’s, though—so Shiro won’t be there for it,” Keith explained, rubbing his hands over his bruised face with a groan. “Unless I… _miraculously_ find another coach, I’ll be going in alone.”

They were all quiet for the moment it took for Hunk to hunt them down. “What’d I miss?” he asked, and then noted the brackets again. “ _Ooh_ , sorry bro. That guy looks tough—Coran and Allura were just at his pit. They watched the end of the fight. Apparently it was brutal. He can toss people like you.”

“And at that size, I doubt you’d be able to toss _him_ ,” Pidge commented. “But aren’t there people from your gym here? You could just ask one of them to play the coach—could they switch out with Shiro even when the match is going on?”

“No, no one goes in or out of the pits once the match starts…” he sighed, but Keith hadn’t even thought of that before. He hadn’t thought about asking one of Shiro’s fighters to help him out. Shiro hadn’t even considered it, even knowing that he’d have to back out of some of their fights because he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Keith rubbed a hand over his face, and tried to remember who all said they’d be here today. 

Keith groaned before turning and looking around the lobby. “Okay—at least five guys said they’d be here for Nyma and I. We just have to find them in all of this mess within, like, five minutes so I have time to get to the pit and warm up,” he said. 

“All right. Who we lookin’ for?” Hunk said.

Keith listed off their names and a second later Hunk ordered Pidge to get on his shoulders. They hoisted her up, and they went from pit to pit shouting off the five names. They were easy to notice with their height, which made up for the fact that most of the pits were deafening with noise. Keith and Lance followed close behind, for reference when a familiar face happened to look in their direction, and recognize Keith.

One of them did just that. He was an Italian fella, younger, with a wisp of curly hair swept to the side. He was taller, but with an equally stocky build—that day he happened to be in his woolen black winter coat and jeans, white t-shirt underneath. “Keith! How ya doin’? I saw that last match with Ulaz—Nice goin’ with the toss!” he said as he squeezed out of the row and came to greet them.

“Thace! Hey—the bracket just came up. I’m going against Sendak next and Shiro can’t make the match. He’s in the pit with Nyma now,” he said, and Thace shook his head with a tsk.

“What’dya need, kid?” he asked, so Keith relayed the idea—Thace wasn’t exactly an old boxing veteran like Shiro, but he’d been fighting since he was young and his brothers introduced him to wrestling. He was more dicy with his techniques—ignoring Shiro here and there in favor of cold-hard street moves his older siblings taught him. 

But he would suffice.

Thace agreed to it, shedding his coat and waving to their buddies watching the current match. They all filed out and walked with them down the hall to the next pit. Lance introduced them all to himself, Hunk, and Pidge, who was still propped up on top of Hunk’s shoulders. She ducked under every doorway, and leaned down to shake each of their hands. 

“So Thace, you know Shiro?” she asked him, arms folded over Hunk’s head.

“Yeah, I know ‘im. My pops used to be in the same division as Shirogane back in the day, and all my siblings were into boxing because of it,” Thace explained, grinning up at her with his sharp, white teeth. He had a tattoo licking up the shell of his ear. “And you?”

“New friend,” she answered, smiling back at him. “And how do you know Keith?”

“We see each other at the gym now and again. I’m a bit rustier now, but Keith’s one of Shirogane’s gifted kids so here were are,” he explained, knocking Keith in the shoulder with his fist. “It’s more or less a hobby for me now. I’ve been phasing out for about four years now.”

They talked until Keith and Thace had to be separated in order to prepare for the match. Lance gave Keith an affectionate squeeze on the hand, which was more than enough for support, but before Keith could completely pull his hand away, Lance reeled him back in. Naturally, Keith wouldn’t have given into the tug so easily, but for Lance, he would bend.

After a few seconds, Keith regained enough restraint knowing Pidge was probably gagging into Hunk’s hair at this point. He pulled back from Lance’s lips, and said, “I’ll see you after the match.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to kiss you while your lips are all still in the right shape,” he replied, brushing his fingers over Keith’s mouth one last time before Keith playfully brushed his arm aside and rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he laughed.

He waved to everyone else and followed after Thace. They’d been to enough matches to know generally what Shiro’s roll was all about, so after Thace had a chat with the ref and the other coach, Keith was so glad Thace was able to stay in the pit with him. Keith shed his robe off, noting the size difference between him and Sendak. The man had to be over six feet tall. 

And then he heard his name being hissed off to the side. 

Thace nudged Keith’s arm and nodded to the railing, where he turned and found Coran and Allura up against the railing, calling out to him. He hurried over, reaching up and grabbing the edge of the wall. “What is it?” he asked.

“We were just at Sendak’s last match,” Allura explained, keeping her voice low because of the people around them. “Coran and I noticed something and—”

“—Watch out for his kicks. He tripped the other person when she wasn’t paying attention,” Coran explained. “He doesn’t do it to knock you down—just to get ya off balance before going in for hard hits.”

Keith glanced behind him where Sendak was stepping up to the mat. The ref was looking at them. “Okay, I’ll watch out. Thanks for telling me,” he said, and reached up for the hand Coran lowered down. They high-fived before Keith jogged up to the mat and met Sendak in the middle.

Sendak’s fists were wider than Keith’s—a testament to how painful a hit from them would be. He kept his eyes up, focused on the stoic, almost deadly look from Sendak’s quiet affect. Keith took in a deep breath as the ref brought them together and laid down the rules before separating them. Only then did he release the air in his lungs, and shake it out, clapping his hands together and getting into his fighting stance.

The buzzer went off, and unlike all of Keith’s other opponents, Sendak took his time. He and Keith circled one another like wrestlers—preparing to box one another in the ear if they came too close for comfort. He knew this was just the calm before the storm, so he rode it out—one foot crossing another, gliding to the left in time with Sendak, and how their eyes remained locked at all times.

He was waiting for Keith to make the first move, and since Keith didn’t, Sendak took it upon himself to step in with one large jolt and cruise forward. His fists went fast—ducking first for Keith’s head, and then aiming lower, where Keith couldn’t move fast enough. 

Even with the padding on Sendak’s hands, each hit to Keith’s forearms felt like he was being slapped with bricks. He tried to listen for Shiro’s orders—he always followed them during the matches, and he never really realized it until he couldn’t peg Shiro’s familiar voice above the crowd—

—Shiro wasn’t even there. 

Keith’s brain was so tuned to listening to Shiro’s coaching that he couldn’t differentiate Thace’s voice above the crowd. As a last ditch effort, he went for the tactic Coran and Allura gave him.

Sendak tried to knock Keith off balance within the first minute. It was all Keith could focus on—so his jump was precise, and it took Sendak off guard long enough for Keith to go for the big guns. He was far enough in the tournament to use them. 

His punch to Sendak’s jaw wasn’t properly aimed. In fact, Keith was surprised that with the force he put behind it, that his fist didn’t completely shatter. He didn’t even feel a twinge of pain against him—just the give of the flesh of Sendak’s cheeks, followed by the sharp, destructive blow of Sendak being thrust to the side, head spinning and feet staggering to catch their balance.

Keith didn’t wait for him to get his balance. He went in with a force in his steps, the beat leading up to Keith’s leg spinning up and slamming into Sendak’s arms as he raised them up for defense. The heat coursing through Keith radiated—it collected beneath every hit, every punch (no matter how few there really were in the match) to the point where Sendak would purposefully stick to defense when Keith was on a roll. 

But those times were few and far between.

For the most part Sendak kept Keith in the middle of the mat—dominant in the battle but weak against Keith’s hits. And Keith _knew_ Sendak was doing this because another bout like that would be the end of Sendak’s winning streak—

The buzzer went off.

Keith was squinting through swollen eyelids, sweat dripping from his hairline as Sendak lowered his fists and turned sharply, heading back to his corner. Keith turned to Thace and stepped off the mat, going instantly for his water bottle. He dunked it over his hair and squirted it between the gaps of his mouthguard as Thace gave him pointers from his observations of the last round. Keith soaked them in—he wasn’t sure if his ulnas would last long enough to block every last one of Sendak’s hits.

“ _Kogane!_ ” someone shouted from the railing. Keith looked over, recognizing the voice as Nyma. She punched her fist in the air, shouting, “ _Low stamina!_ ”

He wanted to shout at her because they cut that from the list of possible weaknesses when they were at the gym with Sendak. The guy had the stamina of a long-distance runner—

—But that didn’t mean he had the stamina of a short-distance runner.

“He’s gonna stop tryna fake you out with the kicks soon—those are your best chances at landing decent hits,” Thace told Keith as he turned his attention back to his temporary coach. “You think you can take one of his hard hits? Just one?”

Keith looked over at Sendak, who had his head tilted back, a streak of water spraying into his mouth. “I dunno,” Keith mumbled through his mouthguard. “Heard those hits are bad.”

“Yeah, but if you convince him you can’t dodge every kick, then you have a higher chance of him sticking with that tactic—more opportunities to use your hard hits against him,” Thace insisted, grabbing Keith by the shoulder when the ref called them back. “If you can take the next hard hit, I _promise you_ that you can take him down with just one of yours. He’s already scared’a them, ‘ight?”

Keith swallowed hard, terrified of the idea of getting concussed this far into the tournament. He didn’t want Shiro to have to pay a healer to fix that damage. He didn’t want to sacrifice himself for the small chance that he’d even be able to _deliver_ a hit as hard as Thace was suggesting. 

“I’ll try,” he promised, and turned back to the mat, tossing the water bottle back at Thace.

  


Sendak kept close to Keith at all times—it made his kicks harder to avoid now. Keith saw it coming, and in a moment of panic gave in to his self-preservation tactic. He hadn’t seen Sendak’s hits, but just one look at his forearms, his ribs, his _fucking eyes_ told him he couldn’t risk it. So he jumped.

His hit on Sendak wasn’t as focused or tuned in as his other ones, so his opponent only seemed to stutter before coming back and slamming his fist into Keith’s face. The force of it took Keith’s legs out from under them—he hit the mat _hard_.

Keith’s head bounced off the rubber, and he groaned into it, wincing as he pushed his fist hard against it and heaved himself back up. He glowered up at Sendak through the thin strand of damp hair that managed to hang in his eyes. He was burning all over. He could hear his name above anyone else’s, and he knew it was because Shiro was somewhere in the crowd. Keith knew Shiro’s voice better than anyone’s in the middle of a match, so he stuck with it.

He remembered when he was first starting out with Shiro. Every opponent felt like Sendak back then, and just a dip into that puddle called up the basics Keith thought were innately woven in to his usual tactics. It’d been years since Shiro even bothered to coach him on the basics, so it was refreshing to hear his coach’s voice just a few feet from his heavy, panting breath and rushing blood.

“Stay low, keep your body centered between your feet—

“—Keep your torso tight, but flexible—

“—Duck like you’re touching the ground behind you, and—”

Keith did just that, and braced himself, swinging his legs out and slamming them into Sendak’s shins. It took them both down, and Keith sprung up fast, lunging out and tackling Sendak the second he started to get up. They rolled across the floor, and on his knees Keith delivered a harsh swing to Sendak’s cheek. The effort sent Keith forward, onto his hands—Sendak collapsed back on the mat, groaning. 

Keith heaved himself to his feet, swaying and dizzy—he needed water. He needed someone to look at his head—his ribs were aching. He stumbled away from Sendak, nearly forgetting to keep his eyes on the man, and it was a good thing he looked because Sendak was back on his feet; he was definitely woozy, but Keith knew that wouldn’t stop Sendak’s heavy punches from knocking Keith down.

One duck spun Keith’s head to the side, and his equilibrium went off balance. He stumbled over his feet like a drunken mess. He remembered abruptly when he and Lance stumbled out of the bar all those weeks ago. The only reason Keith ever stumbled around then was because Lance was purposefully tripping him across the sidewalk, laughing like a _goddamn_ beautiful hyena.

“ _Sloppy as usual, Kogane_.”

Lotor’s voice came out of left field and managed to clobber Keith _hard_ in the face. He toppled over the ground, keeping himself up barely by his hands on the mat—but that just gave Sendak the chance to kick Keith in the stomach. He rolled onto the ground, coughing, knowing that it was a _sloppy move_ to try and stay up like that—if he was down, then Sendak wouldn’t be able to kick him—but even half-up—

 _He has_ no _place here_ , Keith seethed. He hadn’t thought of Lotor’s side comments in ages, but once he stepped into that puddle, it was all he could think about. It was a lake of all of Lotor’s snide remarks, harsh critiques, and pitying, superior disposition. 

“ _Oh come on, you can hit harder than that. What are you, a_ girl _, huh? Is that what you are? Shame, really—I don’t know if I can go on dating you if you’re actually a woman. You never seem to want to take off your pants for me so it’s not like I would really_ know _anyway—_ ”

Keith all but screamed, charging at Sendak with a recklessness he hadn’t felt in ages. All he wanted to do was put a dent in Sendak’s smug, somehow _stoic fucking face_ —

The roar that came out of him took his opponent completely off guard, and in the next moment Keith flew up, the heat inside of him building tension in his arm that he cranked back and delivered with deadly precision. To the times Lotor used to mock him for being weak.

 _Keith was never weak_.

Sendak went down in an instant. Two rounds, and Keith managed to take out the beast he and Nyma cowered at the sight of not long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't edit this because it took so long to write and I'm just too lazy to, so sorry about simple mistakes. When I write fast I tend to mix up homonyms. 
> 
> But anyways, **I'm so ready to destroy everyone with this next chapter.** I think there's gonna be another two or three chapters. I'm gonna say three, just to give myself some breathing room.
> 
>  _EDIT:_ BECAUSE I DIDN'T EDIT IT I JUST REALIZED A SLIGHT PLOT HOLE: The tournament started on a Friday, and the Sendak fight was on a Saturday, which MEANS that Allura and Coran closed the shop again !! Like !! I know The Quilted Lion isn't real but I'm worried about their income !! Sorry for closing the café for two days in favor of buff dudes punching each other in the face D:


	18. Loops

“I’m sorry you didn’t make it to the final round,” Keith said to Nyma, pushing himself up into a seated position. They’d been through three rounds the first day, and then as the matches narrowed down, the crowds turnout inverted. The density of the crowds became less thinned out, which made for larger audiences in the few matches that occurred through the day. Keith missed Zarkon’s second to last match, so that morning he had plans on seeing if he’d finally get to fight Zarkon again.

The soreness in his muscles, though, was something Shay was still working on. His face was all patched up, though—professionals looked at it, and Shiro paid a pretty penny for it.

Nyma shrugged, leaning against the countertop Keith was on as she said, “Eh, no biggy. I figured that 10K wasn’t really in the cards for me anyway. I gave up on high hopes a _long_ time ago.”

Keith hopped off the counter and let her steady him. “But it still would have been cool.” With all the separate weight classes, it would come down to the final score—ultimately. So far Keith was doing fine—though his match with Sendak really put him down a few pegs. The regulations for the points system was the same through all the weight classes—so both Keith and Nyma could have won, but whoever had the highest score would ultimately get the first place winnings. Second place got half that. 

He stretched out his arms and twisted his torso to and fro. With a sigh he relaxed, and looked to where Shiro was standing near the door waiting for them to finish up. Shay gave Keith a pat on the shoulder, “How you feeling now?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Any soreness you want me to work on still? A good massage could clear that up,” she suggested, cracking her knuckles and resting them on her hips. Keith smiled a little—a massage sounded nice, but he had a match to watch.

“Nah, I’m good for now. Thanks Shay,” he said, genuinely thankful for the fact that Shiro somehow managed to befriend this woman. She gave him a light hug before sending him off into the world again, and to where Shiro clasped him by the shoulder and steered him down the hall. 

“Are you sure you’re good to go?” Shiro asked, and it came out as a sort of threat. As if Shiro could tell if Keith _wasn’t_ doing well. 

“I’m fine, seriously,” Keith insisted, nudging Shiro in the side. “I’ll be fine. Let’s get to Zarkon’s match.”

The pit was on the other end of the hall—there were people scattered all along the corridor walls, crowding in to see through the archway. There were _so many people_ , and Keith knew it was because the two biggest names were going against one another at this very moment. There would be no way for them to find Pidge, Lance, or even Hunk in this crowd—let alone Allura and Coran. They could barely get through the walkway anyway, at least not like—

“Hey, that’s Kogane!” someone shouted, and Keith subconsciously tugged his hood closer as Shiro stepped up to direct their attention elsewhere.

“Ko-gane, Ko-gane, Ko-gane!” someone started chanting—Keith figured it was mostly sarcastic, but that didn’t seem to stop anyone in the hall to keep from chanting it. 

Shiro suggested they avoid the match altogether—the others were there anyway, they could relay the details of the match back to them. “I’m gonna go check out the concessions then—I’m starving!” Nyma shouted over the chanting, and made a break for it before Keith could chase after her, only to be held back by Shiro. He wasn’t supposed to overeat before his last match. 

It was just disappointing that they couldn’t see Zarkon’s match. And they would have left, had the chanting not called the attention of a few people in the pit, and a moment later Keith heard Pidge shouting at them.

She squeezed between the people leaning in through the archway, and shouted at Keith, “Wait! Wait—Something’s wrong!”

They hesitated, turning back just as Pidge jumped over someone’s stretched-out legs and collided with Keith. She looked— _traumatized_. “What is it? Did someone get hurt?” Keith asked, the thought of it terrifying him. He knew regular matches were a bit rough in the crowd, but in semi-professional matches like this…?

Pidge shook her head quickly, “No—No, not that. You remember that other name on the roster? The guy Zarkon’s going against?” she asked talking so fast he could barely understand her. He squinted at her, and she groaned, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him towards the crowd of people.

Knowing who he was now, a few of the guys parted the way and gave them a path to the peak of the stairs, looking down at the pit just as the crowd went completely mental. Keith winced, pressing a hand to his ear, and craning to see over the heads of the people standing on the stairs. He recognized Zarkon’s burly, borderline heavyweight frame—but he went out of view the second his opponent slammed his fist into the side of Zarkon’s head. 

It drove Zarkon across the mat, stumbling, falling, rolling onto the concrete. Keith’s heart stopped, his grip on Pidge’s arm tightening as the seconds passed, and Zarkon barely made it up to his knees. But Keith’s eyes weren’t focused on Zarkon anymore. He didn’t matter.

Knyaz was converging on him, steps powerful and hardly phased by the past three rounds that just went on. His broad, intimidating frame was no longer lanky—it had only a hint of the leanness Keith remembered. But his hair—thin and black—was wrapped up in a bun, baby hairs damp against the nape of his neck as his torso twisted. It glistened in sweat, touching on the rippling curves of his shoulder blades, his obliques, and the angular curve of his jawline turning to them.

That sharp grin of utter victory.

“He’s calling himself the Knyaz of Russia,” Pidge said, and Keith could already hear the word rising up in the crowd. _Prince Prince Prince Prince_ —

Lotor. The fucking boxing prince of Russia. Keith should have known. He should have seen it coming—almost as obvious as the knockout Lotor delivered in the next second.

The followthrough of the punch sent Lotor staggering forward, following the movement of Zarkon slamming into the mat, unconscious. Lotor stepped to the side, swinging back and raising his fists to the air with a triumphant yell. His golden mouthguard glinted in the spotlights, sharp, golden eyes scanning the crowd. Keith felt himself sinking into that puddle again. He felt small and terrified and pressured to submit to the idea that Lotor would always force him to stay a step below him. 

He felt like Lotor could see him, panicking on the steps. _He’s been here all tournament. He knows my name. He knows I’m here—How many matches has he watched me fight? How many times has he been in the stands watching me?_

Keith felt like his entire body was on fire, and he couldn’t stop the frantic, tight feeling in the pit of his chest. He felt Pidge pulling on his arm, and then someone’s hand was on his face. He couldn’t stop staring at Lotor, even when the Prince of Russia turned away from the chanting crowd and grabbed the water bottle from his coach. Keith recognized that coach—

“Keith—Keith, listen to me,” Shiro was saying, forcefully yanking Keith’s eyes away from Lotor, and urging him to focus. He felt the heated tension in his brain swell behind his eyes, and he was crying uncontrollably. “ _Shit_.”

“What is it? What’s going on?” Lance shouted, forcing his way between spectators and running along the empty bench. Everyone was standing at this point, and Hunk, Coran, and Allura were cruising behind Lance. 

“We need to get him out of here,” Shiro said, yanking Keith’s hood over his head and ordering Pidge and Lance to hold him from either side. Keith held a hand up to his face, trying to stop those _goddamn_ flashbacks he couldn’t seem to control at this point. He was spiraling down that mountain Professor Kolivan forced him to trek. 

They were out in the cool, fresher air of the corridor in a few seconds, and Allura stormed up to Shiro, shouting, “What the hell was that? What’s wrong?”

Keith couldn’t hear them beyond the horrible, wretched sound of sobbing coming out of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe properly until Shiro forced him into the bathroom and went through each stall to ensure they were alone. He actually chased out a guy who was in the middle of pissing, yelling, “ _Move!_ Find another bathroom!”

Pidge was still clinging to Keith, and hugged him the second it was just all of them, alone, in the middle of the tournament bathroom. He clung to Pidge like nothing else mattered and sobbed, “I’m sorry—I-I’m sorry, P-Pidge—I was so m-mean to you—”

“That was a _really_ long time ago,” she said, calm as ever. “It doesn’t matter though.”

Keith was about to blubber some more—he couldn’t control his goddamn mouth, or the tears now staining his cheeks. He felt completely out of control—completely unraveled, exposed, and it felt like any second now Lotor would barge in knowing exactly how Keith felt, knowing _exactly_ how to push him over the edge—

“Keith,” Shiro said, voice stern as he came to stand in front of him, looking down at Keith and Pidge, and the tearful Lance standing close with an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t look into who Knyaz was. I had no idea, but that’s no excuse.”

“D-Don’t make me fight him,” Keith whispered, and _dammit_ , it felt like he was back to square one. It was like he never got over Lotor in the first place.

“Who is he? Who’s Knyaz?” Lance demanded, grip tightening on Keith’s arm. 

Shiro’s wide eyes looked between Keith and Lance, until Keith eventually sniffed and said, “He knows about Lotor. Knyaz is Lotor—I didn’t know he was coming _back_.” 

“Yeah, well, he always did like tournaments that had money at the end of it,” Shiro sighed, rubbing both hands down his face as Keith managed to calm himself down enough to talk again.

“Please don’t make me fight him,” he said, and saying it just made him feel weaker than before. He hated feeling weak, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how awful it’d be to fight Lotor again. It was as if he was being mocked all over again—repeatedly, continually, and with the same ruthlessness Lotor used on Keith when they were together. Pointing out all of his flaws, and it wasn’t just related to fighting; he’d bring in every day things that didn’t relate to the gym, or any of his training. But Keith thought it was all relevant and that Lotor was just _trying to make him a better person_ —

—But he effectively made Keith a worse person because of it. 

_I’m so terrible to Pidge—she doesn’t deserve me—how could she put up with me—_

“You said he’s been teaching himself magic,” Lance said quickly, and Pidge nodded against Keith’s chest. He felt a crawling sensation inside his chest, like he wanted to get away from Pidge. He didn’t want Pidge to be near him if all he did was bother her and _yell at her_ —

“Professor Kolivan has been teaching him about the mind space,” Allura said, and suddenly she was in front of him, tugging Pidge away. “He’s stuck in a loop.”

“What’s that?” Shiro asked. “Is _that_ what’s causing the panic attack?” 

Keith could barely see through his blurry, glassy eyes as Allura tugged his face up and laid her hands over his cheeks. Her expression dulled for a moment, before her brow creased in the middle and a pitying look came to her face. “Oh, hun, I’m sorry—I should have asked sooner.”

“What about?” he asked, sniffing.

“People with a history of mental illness can get stuck in loops,” Lance explained, pressing his head against the side of Keith’s. “Because rewinding your mind space artificially recreates the events you’re re-experiencing. It’s nothing you did wrong—it’s just—”

“—The way it is,” Keith finished, sniffing again and rubbing a hand over his eyes. Allura let go of his face to give him space, and looked worriedly over to Shiro and Pidge. 

She dropped her hands to her sides, defeated. “I don’t know how to fix the psychological effects of loops. It’s complicated—but I’m sure Kolivan would be willing to help. It’s a rather… bizarre situation, and I don’t know if we have much time…”

“The heavyweight match won’t happen until eight tonight,” Shiro said. “Do you think you could get Kolivan to come?”

“He already knows about… _everything_ ,” Keith confessed, feeling stuffy and lightheaded. The natural effects of post-crying. “I don’t think he expected me to… fall into a loop, though.”

“It’s not something that happens a whole lot,” Lance reassured him. “Once you know how loops work, it’s easy to avoid them. It’s like… that feeling you get when you know you’re about to cry, but then you take a few deep breaths and everything’s all right. It’s like that once you get the hang of it.”

Keith nodded hesitantly, throat closing up at the thought that he’d have to start dealing with this shit again. He didn’t want to think about it, and yet his brain was forcing him to. He remembered how much he dreaded going back to the apartment where he might have to deal with seeing Pidge’s disappointment, her concern, her constant annoyance with him. And the entire time he _knew_ he was being ridiculous, but thinking of Lotor made him force some sort of rationale. 

He remembered what it felt like going through memories with Professor Kolivan. He could see Lance, and feel him—he felt safe surrounded by all of them, but at the same time he wasn’t there at all. He faintly heard Allura say she was going to call Kolivan before she left, and then Shiro was sighing into his hands. “We can’t hog the bathroom forever,” he told them.

“I’ll stay here with Keith,” Lance said instantly. “You guys can go keep an eye on things.”

Keith wanted to say something. He wanted Pidge there with him, but at the same time the thought of pestering her, and forcing her to hang around him when she hated crying just felt like he was going to put her through torture. It always aggravated him when he got emotional around Shiro, because his boss was the epitome of stoic, silent suffering. And when Keith did lose control in front of Shiro, his boss just seemed disappointed. But perhaps that was just Keith’s mind skewing things out of proportions.

Pidge gave Keith a hug, and then Hunk came up from behind and squeezed all four of them together. Pidge giggled, her voice muffled against Keith’s chest before Hunk released them and steered Pidge towards the door. “Text me if you need anything!” she demanded of Keith. He nodded, managing a small smile as they all left. Coran saluted him from the door and was off with the others.

After a moment of standing in shaky silence, Lance kissed Keith on the cheek and suggested they hide out in the end stall. Keith mutely agreed, letting Lance guide him over to the stall. It was the larger stall meant for handicapped people, and it was odd because it had its own sink and mirror, so Keith could see just how awful he was until Lance forced him to the ground beneath the mirror. 

Keith sat between Lance’s legs and felt guilty for making Lance sit around with him when he could be hanging out with Hunk and Pidge and Coran. He didn’t want to inconvenience Lance, no matter how much he appreciated having Lance around to rub his arms, squeeze him around to middle, and kiss his hair. Keith tucked his chin against his knees and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes. 

“I haven’t lost c-control like this for a few years,” Keith gasped out. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Lance murmured, curving over Keith’s back and placing his hands over Keith’s. The heat boiling inside Keith began to balance out, stretching into a warm blanket that enveloped him from behind. He let out a shaky sigh, and wrapped his hands around Lance’s.

“I… don’t know much about loops, to be completely honest,” Lance confessed, pressing his cheek against the back of Keith’s neck. “But I know some kids in my classes who have had it before. Once or twice, nothing huge. Not _every_ panic attack or depressive day triggers it, you know. It might even just be a one-time thing.”

Keith nodded quietly, pressing his lips briefly to Lance’s knuckles before they were interrupted by someone entering the bathroom. They both stayed as still and as quiet as possible—it was almost like a game until the point where the person left, and Keith felt his chest crushing in again. Keith couldn’t _fucking stop thinking about him_. It was infuriating to the point where he wanted to scream if he wasn’t already sobbing into Lance’s chest, remembering in exact detail how terrible he felt when Lotor left. He felt like a faulty, _used_ , inadequate excuse for a boyfriend because he couldn’t and _didn’t_ want to follow Lotor back to Russia. It was like he went and built this _possible life with him_ and ruined it all with his shitty bank account and already-signed lease with Pidge.

Provided everything Lance had said about his empathy problems, he was incredibly good at keeping himself together while Keith fell apart. He reminded Keith of where they were, and who he was with—and definitely _not_ whatever shitshow was going on in his head. He remembered that Shiro and the others were just outside the bathroom, worried about him. And even if he felt guilty for wasting their time, he was grateful that they cared enough about him to waste their time on him.

  


  


Outside the door Shiro was pacing. 

He combed his hands through his hair and looked at the men’s bathroom door. He was complete shit at consoling Keith back then, and he was _still_ complete shit at it. Perhaps it had something to do with the stinging feeling in the back of his mind saying that _he_ was ultimately the reason why Lotor was ever a huge part in Keith’s life. And to make matters worse, Shiro _knew_ Lotor’s history of several significant others before Keith, but the guy always brushed them off as mere discrepancies. A verbal fight here, there, and they called it quits. It clearly wasn’t that simple if this was the state Keith was in now.

Keith’s roommate—Pidge—was standing alongside Hunk and Coran with a sour look on her face. Her nose was all twisted up, eyebrows condensed, her scowl on the floor. Hunk was on the floor fiddling around on his phone, perhaps to keep from crying because the kid came out of the bathroom in a bawling mess. Evidently Hunk had empathy issues. “Lance and I both do. Whenever he’s a mess, I’m a mess,” Hunk explained.

“Are you sure you two aren’t dating?” Pidge asked, narrowing her eyes at Hunk. It just seemed to make him bawl harder.

“How could you accuse me o-of _sabotaging_ Keith and Lance’s relationship!” he cried out, and crushed Pidge into a hug. Coran went over to pat Hunk on the back until the kid calmed down enough to hunker down and calm down.

So yeah. Everyone was pretty much a mess, but at least Nyma was still… normal.

She came back a moment later as Shiro trekked back down the hall towards the lobby. She turned around it with an armful of popcorn, a corndog, and a sandwich of frosted cornbread. Nyma hesitated at the sight of Shiro pacing, saying, “It’s never a good thing when you start pacing.”

“There’s been a bit of an issue. Also, what’s with all the… the, um…?” Shiro started, gesturing to her assortment of food.

“They were having a sale on all things corn,” she said, tearing off a bit of corndog and chewing as she asked, “So what’s the issue?”

Just as Shiro opened his mouth to explain the dilemma, she gasped and nearly choked on her corndog. He still had Keith’s water bottle in his hand, so he offered it to her, taking the box of popcorn so she’d have the hand for it. She was glaring at someone behind him, so he turned and saw the dilemma walking straight for them.

 _A new coach I see_ , Shiro commented, noting Haggar’s grayish hair and the hard, cold lines that age put on her. He never did care for her much, but that didn’t seem to stop Lotor from favoring her. She _did_ happen to be the manager of Lotor’s previous opponent as well. 

Only hints of Lotor changed, but it wasn’t enough to prevent Shiro from recognizing the man. He was furious with himself for not investigating Knyaz sooner—when Nyma couldn’t even find him, it should have been an obvious hint. All this time Lotor was probably training in Russia, so of course Nyma wouldn’t find anything on him. 

His long, heavy black hair dipped over his shoulder—damp with sweat and shadowed by the hood of his robe. Incredibly tall, as always—taller than Shiro, even. But then again, Shiro had always been on the shorter side of the six-foots.

Shiro held onto his stoney expression, even when Lotor slowed his steps, turning back to say something to Haggar. She nodded to him and walked head, catching Shiro’s gaze on the way. Her firm stare held nothing less than malice in it. 

“What are you doing here?” Shiro asked, turning back to Lotor. The boxer pointed to the popcorn container in Shiro’s hand.

“Mind if I steal a few? I’m starved,” Lotor said, already reaching for the box when Nyma jumped in and slapped his hand aggressively.

“I do mind! Get your paws off my popcorn, you bastard!” she all but shouted, but a second later she snatched the box from Shiro’s hands and flung it at Lotor. A massive cloud of popcorn bits flew into the air, and as if everyone wasn’t already looking at them, Nyma made a huge scene hollering at Lotor as she kicked him in the shin and lunged at him, clinging to his torso and yanking at his hair.

“Nyma! Jesus!” Shiro yelled, trying to grab at her only to be intercepted by the security that were at attention. 

The security guard yanked her off of Lotor, kicking and screaming, “You fucking bitch! I’m gonna cut your weave off and nail it to your gravestone! I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Hey, hey!” the guard hollered, holding her down and folding her arms in front of her. Her cornbread and the remainder of her corndog were on the floor by this point, and Lotor was seething.

The security was starting to pull Nyma away—and Shiro knew that they’d kick her out and prevent her from entering again. It was against the rules to attack participating competitors, and even if she was out of the ranking, Lotor was still in the game after defeating Zarkon. 

Lotor’s shoulders tensed, and he stepped after her, yelling, “I always knew your were a crazy bitch! Keith never listened to me!”

“ _Good fucking thing he DIDIN’T!_ ” she screamed, grunting under the strain of getting out of the security guards’ holds. 

Shiro rubbed a hand over his eyes with a distressed sigh. _Well. That won’t go over well for my image_ , he thought, breathing in sharply and looking at where Lotor was still facing the direction of where Nyma was dragged out. Eventually, he spun back around, facing Shiro with that same familiar face of competitive fury he got in matches. 

“Where is he,” Lotor demanded.

Shiro sighed and shook his head, “You shouldn’t have come back, Lotor. Not for Keith.”

Lotor’s fists clenched, and he raised them up as if to throttle Shiro with them. “Then tell me. Who the hell is he with now? That scrawny little—”

“That would be my employee.” Allura’s voice startled Shiro enough to look as shocked as Lotor. She stepped up from behind them, pocketing her cellphone and folding her arms over her chest. “And he’s none of your concern.”

Shiro felt a tinge of something akin to hope, but based on everything he observed these past few days, she was entirely here for Keith. He was mentally preparing himself to replace his daily regimen of visiting The Quilted Lion. He was mentally preparing himself for the final kick, but so far Allura was making it incredibly difficult to think about that, especially when she was defending Keith like this.

“I do not recognize you. Are you knew to the gym or…?” Lotor asked, folding his arms in a mocking display of imitating Allura.

“I’m actually Takashi’s girlfriend. And you are?” she demanded, stepping in front of Shiro to go toe-to-toe with Lotor. She was just an inch or two shorter than Shiro, and was equally intimidating to anyone taller or shorter than her.

Shiro tried not to look as shocked as Lotor. His former boxer looked at him, and Shiro hoped to _God_ he looked convincing enough to suggest that they were, in fact, dating. 

“I’m actually—”

“—Clearly not important enough for me to bother with. I’d appreciate it if you stopped threatening my employee, and bothering Takashi. Get the fuck away from us before you give me reason to bother with you,” she hissed, pointing down the corridor, away from where Hunk, Pidge, and Coran were clearly watching. One of the onlookers whistled low, and Shiro was just surprised that the Knyaz backers weren’t rioting at this point.

Lotor glowered at her and pegged Shiro with an equally intimidating sneer. “See you later, _boss_ ,” he said, saluting Shiro mockingly before heading off to the foyer. He flicked his hood up—evidently Nyma managed to tear it off of him during their short scrabble.

Shiro stared after Lotor before looking at all the people watching them. “What the hell are you all lookin’ at?” he snapped at them, and instantly they turned away and went about their business. When he managed to calm down for a second, he glanced sparingly at Allura and said, voice quiet, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking hate uppity guys like him, and he did this to Keith so I couldn’t help it,” she snapped at him, eyes darting up to meet his. He blinked at her before turning away, forcing himself to calm down for a damn second. _She hates me—she hates me_ —“And besides, we’re dating. As if _I’m_ going to stand by while an asshole like him pesters you.”

Shiro’s brain barley processed it. It was just enough for him to shake his head, saying, “But we aren’t—we _aren’t_ dating, Allura.”

“Then tell me what the fuck that night was, at the Hudson,” she demanded, shoving him in the arm. He let his arm hang loosely, affected by her anger that sunk in his chest like a rock. 

“But I never _told you_ about all… _this_ ,” he countered, equally as pissed. How could she toy with him like this? Couldn’t she just _leave him be_ if she had no intention of forgiving him? “I _lied_ to you—! You shouldn’t still _want_ this! Whatever _this_ is between us—”

“Yeah, well, I’m still pissed at you!” she all but shouted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still adore the living _shit_ out of you!”

He stammered for a second, before his brows knitted together in confusion. “Wait—what?”

She huffed at him; it was a half laugh that dissolved into a breathy, “Unbelievable.” She pressed forward and crushed their lips together, her hands on either side of his stubbly cheeks, and pulling him closer still. He leant into her, closing his eyes even though he was still trying to figure out what the _fuck_ she meant by all this.

Allura was strange, but Shiro was willing to at least _try_ to understand if it meant he’d get to kiss Allura again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SCREAMING I DIDN'T PLAN FOR THAT ENDING BUT WOWZA. Allura would tho. She would.
> 
>  
> 
>  _Fight me on[Tumblr](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/)_  
>  I'm also on [Radish](https://radish.app.link/oCY0GI9cWA) and [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/-SarahCorner-)! I only post fanfiction on AO3 tho :P


	19. Memory Puddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING** : In case you're sensitive to cutting/suicidal thoughts/blood related to that, there's a mention of it that starts in the beginning around "It was worse than every other time..." and ends before Keith says, "It wasn't just with Lotor."

“Kolivan is on his way,” Allura said as she and Shiro returned to the others. They all looked a bit dazed—or perhaps shocked—from witnessing whatever just happened a few moments before. Shiro was no different. He still wasn’t entirely sure about what just happened. “In the meantime… I think I might head out and grab some food for all of us. Keith probably needs something decent for dinner. Suggestions, Shiro?”

“Pasta. And then thirty minutes before the fight he can have one of those energy bars Hunk has,” he said.

“You mean the Homo sapiens,” Pidge corrected.

“I have the Homos,” Hunk said, reaching back and patting his backpack. Shiro pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at them, and they went quiet instantly.

“There’s an Italian café a few blocks from here,” Coran said. “I’ve been there once before—the food was _excellent_.”

Allura suggested he come with and help decide for everyone. Pidge ixnayed fish and anything involving copious amounts of meat, to which Coran rolled his eyes and said, “This is an _Italian café_ , Pidge. There is going to be meat on just about everything.”

“Nothing with copious amounts, though!” she argued, throwing her arms up. But overall, their decisions were made and Allura and Coran left. Shiro wasn’t sure what he expected from Allura when they left, but it certainly wasn’t an angry scowl before she turned on her heels, white braid tossing over her shoulder. 

After they left, Pidge instantly turned to Shiro and said, “I heard Allura chewed out Lotor. And then she kissed you. What the hell just happened?” 

Shiro glared at her, and she sucked in her lips to keep quiet. Hunk raised his hand weakly and said, “I would like to know also.” With a sigh, Shiro combed a hand through his hair and looked back at where Allura and Coran had disappeared around the corner, and where Nyma had been effectively dragged off the premises. There was still popcorn all over the floor as evidence of the fight.

They fell quiet when someone stepped between them to enter the men’s bathroom. Shiro watched after the closing door—he couldn’t see Lance or Keith inside, but when the door opened they could hear them. Or more specifically, Keith’s stifled crying. 

  


  


Inside the stall, Keith felt like a complete and utter mess.

It was worse than every other time Keith spent crying over Lotor, because he was fluctuating constantly between scene after scene. His heart rate was all over the place, and perhaps that was what made his chest ache so damn _fucking much_. It hurt more than anything—all the soreness from the previous matches was completely expelled from his mind. He saw and felt blood under the scars on his thighs—those were easy to cover up from others’ eyes, and now mostly his own. 

The thought of his scars reopening terrified him, or even _touching_ a razor again. He clasped his hands over the marks, clutching at the fabric of his shorts. 

“I-It wasn’t just with Lotor,” he said quietly. “I, um, had a lot of issues in… high school. My mom was always really hard on me—with school and sports and stuff. And she _hated_ that I came here.”

“My mom didn’t want me away from home either,” Lance confessed. “And I used to get homesick and every time I’d call her she’d be all, ‘UMW is still an option! It’s still the beginning of the semester!’ But of course that would be completely unrealistic, so I’m still here.

“And I really love New York! Why would you come here if you _didn’t_ love it?” he said, and Keith sniffed, smiling a little as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. “ _Exactly_. So I’m glad you stuck around here instead of listening to your overbearing mother.”

Keith snorted and laughed, and asked for bit of toilet paper as he said, “She _is_ kind of overbearing. Well, she used to be, anyway. I moved here mostly just to get away from her.”

Lance leaned over _real_ far and tore off a bit of toilet paper from the roll. It ended up falling all over the place, and in his struggle to keep it off the ground, he ended up tearing off over a foot of it. Keith laughed, and helped rip it before folding it up and blowing his nose into it. “I always thought college couldn’t possibly get worse than all the AP classes my mom was putting me through. Pre-college courses are _way_ more difficult than actual college courses,” Keith said, chucking the wad of used tissue into the toilet. He made the toss easily.

“Agreed. So what’d you go to college for?” Lance asked.

“Well, I went to a small community college in Texas to prepare for the rest of my schooling. I was homeschooled for a while, actually. Public school just wasn’t… fun. But I did intramural sports like taekwondo when I was younger, wrestling, I did a bit of track—my mom wanted me to do a little bit of everything.”

He was quiet for a moment before realizing he hadn’t even answered the question. He cursed a little, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to remember what it was, exactly, that he went to “college” for. “Oh, um, I went to Fordham University for pre-law. I hate politics and court cases and government shit, and I could barely make it through two classes on the ‘philosophy of law’ before I lost my mind. My mom wanted to me to go to Cornell for my graduate degree, but I dropped everything at the end of my first semester. I was already boxing by then… so I guess it wasn’t _that_ big of a deal…”

Lance whistled low and said, “ _Cornell_? Yeesh, high hopes huh?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, sniffing.

“And _Fordham_? You got into _Fordham_?” he gawked, and Keith nodded mutely, his arms going around his knees. 

“They had a gym near campus, and I joined the boxing club. A few upperclassmen guys would go to matches on the weekends, and I just sort of… went along to spectate. And now… here I am.”

“Here you are,” Lance repeated with a hum. “But _Fordham_?”

Keith jerked his elbow back and hit Lance in the rib. “I went in with over thirty college credits—I was practically a sophomore already,” he countered, which just seemed to make Lance choke and fall on the ground. 

He tipped onto the tiles next to Keith, moaning, “I’m officially deceased. You’re smarter than me and I’m a _junior_ in _college_.”

“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Keith whined, nudging Lance by the arm.

Lance sobbed obnoxiously, leading Keith to roll his eyes. He didn’t get _this_ reaction from Lotor—Lotor always seemed so disinterested in Keith’s life before boxing happened. In any case, Lotor valued his own intellect above Keith’s, and would always fact-check Keith if he claimed this-or-that in the middle of a conversation about ethics or politics or economy and society. They’d get into huge arguments, which were always so ridiculous because Keith _hated_ those types of arguments, but would go into them anyway with only half the facts and Lotor being there to correct him on all of it. 

He didn’t exactly have a smart phone back then to look up the answers anyway. Shiro only recently provided him with his crappy, hand-me-down iPhone. 

Keith laughed at the thought, but the choked-up feeling in the back of his throat seemed to rupture and it turned to a pained sob. Being with Lotor made Keith realize that the fact that he dropped out of college didn’t matter—it was the complete opposite of what his mother constantly bombarded him with. Lotor was the one to distance Keith from his mother’s hateful, drunken phone calls. He helped him become independent when he turned eighteen. He helped Keith figure out his first credit card, pay for the first month of rent, file for tax returns—become an _adult_ , basically.

“ _See? What would you do without me. And I had to learn this all on my own—on_ top _of learning English_ ,” Lotor would say, flicking Keith playfully on the side of the head before leaning down and kissing his forehead. “ _Poslushay menya_ , _Keith—What? You like how that sounds? Poslushay menya, krasivyy_.”

Lotor never did tell Keith what any of it meant, but he heard Lotor’s common phrases enough to figure it out based on the inflection of his voice. “ _Krasivyy_ ” was always positive, loving, even. Lotor would say it with soft eyes and a soft smile—sleepy, animated, yearning. It was a good way to pacify Keith. _Ty krasivyy. Krasivyy_ —

Keith clamped onto his knees crying, “I miss him— _I miss him_ —”

“No, no—No you don’t, Keith. Don’t say that, _please_ ,” Lance was begging, combing his hands through Keith’s hair and trying to even his breath. Keith pushed his hands on the ground, about to stand up. “Where are you going?”

“I-I need to find him. He’s here—He’s probably _looking for me—_ ” Keith started, and it felt like every word was attached to a string, choking him around the throat and wanting to force the words back. He could barely force himself close enough to the door before Lance was up and blocking his path. “ _Get out of my way!_ ”

Lance’s shoulders tensed, and he got this broken look on his face that just made Keith sob harder. “Y-You don’t mean that,” Lance said, shaking his head. “I’m not moving.”

“Why are you even _here?!_ You probably think I’m an idiot anyway! Y-You probably hate the fact that I’m a dropout, or that I’m a fucking _street fighter_ —! As if that could get me _anywhere in life!_ ” Keith screamed. “I don’t need you to remind me, okay?! _It’s pretty damn obvious—_ ”

“I never said that!” he countered. “I never even _thought_ it, Keith—”

Keith glared at him as best he could, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re lying,” he spat at Lance. “You don’t—You _can’t_ mean that!”

The sound of the hallway came to them, and a moment later a series of footsteps entered the bathroom. Keith _knew_ he had to calm the fuck down, but nothing seemed to make _sense_. Wasn’t he dating Lotor? He would be furious if he found Keith loitering around the bathroom with Lance—

“They’re in the last stall,” Shiro’s voice sounded, seeming to reverberate against the walls and the clear white tiles. Lance glanced over at the door, and back at Keith, and the second Lance stepped aside so Shiro could come in, Keith was on the door and out of it in an instant. 

“Whoa—easy there,” Shiro said, dodging back to avoid a door to the nose. 

“Where is he,” Keith demanded, grabbing at the lapels of Shiro’s leather jacket. “ _Tell me where he is!_ ”

Shiro looked less than amused at the moment, and actually seemed to roll his eyes a little as he pried Keith’s fingers off of him and held him by the wrists. “Okay, _first off_ : we don’t have time for that. And also secondly—”

“I’m here to get you out of your loop,” a familiar voice came from beside them. It was like tunnel vision—Keith could only see Shiro until he fully turned, startled by the fact that… _Professor Kolivan?_

It was just the four of them now. Just Keith, Shiro, Professor Kolivan, and… Lance.

 _Loop_. 

Keith was fully aware that he really didn’t want to see Lotor. He was fully aware that Shiro probably had no clue _where_ Lotor was to begin with, but that didn’t mean some part of “past Keith” was begging to see him. He couldn’t stop the aching in his chest when he realized that none of them were going to let him fucking _find Lotor_. 

He started hyperventilating, eyes wild and fingers clenched. Shiro gently let go of his wrists, and Keith brought them to his chest. He felt someone’s arms come around him from behind, and he completely panicked. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Lotor was probably wondering where the hell he was—he probably kept Lotor waiting for so long now—

Keith jerked his elbow back and slammed his foot down on Lance’s. Lance shrieked a little, staggering back as Keith whirled around, only to trip and stagger into a stall door. The door was open, so he fell through, only to be yanked to a halt by Shiro’s hand darting out to catch him.

“Whoa, no need to get a concussion by smashing your head on a porcelain toilet,” Shiro said, heaving Keith back, and urging him to sit down in the larger stall.

The mirror showed all the blotchy redness of his face, the hollow appearance of his eyes. He was a tournament now. He should be taking a nap, or working out, stretching— _not_ panicking over… What was he panicking about? Why did he look so _godawful_. 

Keith’s hands went to his face as he turned away from his reflection. He pulled at the skin as Shiro forced him to the ground and practically slammed his shoulders back against the wall. “Now you’re gonna stay right there and let Kolivan help you, all right? Nod so I know you’re listening.”

Keith’s eyes just seemed to go right through Shiro, but he nodded, so Shiro let him go. “I n-need to find Lotor,” Keith pleaded, voice hoarse. His chest was burning up, and the strength to breathe became to unbearable. His muscles were too weak to comply to the constant, heavy beating of his heart. The bathroom stall was green and white, and bubbling around the edges where his tears collected. 

Professor Kolivan reached out to him and pressed a hand over Keith’s, where he had them clenched over his heart. “Your heart’s working too hard. At this rate you could pass out,” he commented before turning to look at Lance and Shiro. “Could one of you get Keith some water?”

“I left his water bottle outside,” Shiro said.

“I’ll get it,” Lance butted in fast, already running to the stall door. Keith tried to remember why he felt awful watching Lance make a getaway like that. The answer didn’t quite make it to Keith’s brain before Professor Kolivan pulled him by the cheeks and directed his attention to his professor’s soft eyes behind those round glasses.

“I’m going to push you onto that mountain we talked about, all right? And I’m going to walk with you, so to speak, to the top of it. Do you understand?” he said firmly. 

Keith remembered the mountain of memories, but he couldn’t possibly fathom getting up now. His limbs felt like lead—as if his heart would even last him that long. His lungs were aching as if he just finished an entire marathon. He felt dehydrated, hungry, tired— _so, so_ tired. But he didn’t want to feel like this forever. “Okay. I’m ready,” Keith said.

He let Professor Kolivan pull him away from the wall. They sat together in the middle of the stall, and Shiro took a seat beside Keith, legs only partially crossed in his tight blue jeans. “So what are you going to do to him? Can you fix the loop?” Shiro asked the professor. Professor Kolivan had his eyes closed, and peaked one open to glare at Shiro, effectively silencing him.

“We’re going to meditate.”

“ _Meditate_?” Shiro blurted out, and stifled his fury only slightly. He grumbled about how ridiculous magic was—as if _meditation_ would fix anything. 

Professor Kolivan closed his eyes again for a full minute before opening them and asking if Keith was ready. He nodded impatiently—he wanted to get this over with before he had another episode. 

The professor’s hand jolted out, the heel of his palm slamming into Keith’s forehead. Keith surged back—time slowing, and something sticky and wet seemed to peal a layer of his skin. It felt like it was clinging to every last hair follicle on his arms and legs. It did little to make him feel any better, because now he was just aware of it. It weighed him down, and made every movement sluggish and unbearable.

Following Professor Kolivan’s instructions provided and oddly nostalgic sensation for Keith. It had the effect of returning to an old movie—a VHS—and rewinding the tape and recalling the events of the movie as they tracked backwards. And then, abruptly and all at once, Professor Kolivan and Keith pressed the STOP button, and they were back to the beginning. It was as if nothing even happened—at least, Keith wished it was like that. 

He could still remember yelling at Lance, and why it hurt to see Lance leave like that. Like he was running away.

Keith fell forward, hands jolting out onto the tile. He groaned a little, reaching up and rubbing the back of his hand to his cheeks. His face felt stiff and swollen—which wasn’t exactly a new feeling, but he hadn’t cried that much in a _long_ time. After a sharp inhale of clear air, Keith looked up again at Professor Kolivan.

His professor reached out a hand and tilted Keith’s face up. “How do you feel now?” he asked, observing Keith’s eyes with that same impassive look.

“Fine,” he answered. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Shiro said, frowning at Keith before looking at Professor Kolivan and saying, “Is he sure?”

Professor Kolivan chuckled, bracing a hand on his knee and heaving himself up off the ground. Keith followed suit, a bit dizzy, and managed to balance himself against the wall. “He’s just dehydrated now. A nap and some food should do him well. It shouldn’t happen again, and if it does, you can push yourself back into your mind space and reroute yourself.”

“How do I do that?” Keith asked, still rubbing at his eyes.

“Meditation, as always. You’re nearly there,” his professor said, rubbing Keith’s hair before heading for the stall door. Keith and Shiro followed after him as he added, “Your magic is at the surface now. You shouldn’t even have to force it much. Just a gentle push here and there—otherwise it all comes naturally.”

“I still don't understand how it _works_ though,” Keith argued. “Yeah, it’s there, and I’ve used it before—but it’s not like- like—”

“Like using a pencil or singing. I understand you. Much of what we consider to be ‘magic’ is connected to the world around us. Your magic is naturally linked to athleticism—many athletes use magic this way. But then there is magic like… culinary magic. It isn’t all telekinesis or using heat with the snap of your fingers. It will take time before you’re able to use it as naturally as Allura.

“But the loop you experienced is just simply a glitch. A scratch on your mental record. It can be smoothed out and sanded down, but it can’t be fully repaired or replaced. There will always be a groove there, Keith. And even if it is linked to one subject, erasing that subject entirely is just… impossible. All your life lessons that came from it would be tampered with, and things you associate with that man would become… irretrievable,” Professor Kolivan explained. “There have been cases where people who suffer from linked-loops have broken the link and cut it out completely from their memory. They essentially corrupt their own minds in favor of forgetting the person the loop is linked to entirely. Often times it leads to full amnesia or early onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Is this your cheesy way of saying everything has a purpose?” Keith said dully, which caused his professor to laugh.

“I guess so. I’ve always scored high on my level of connectedness. Everything in the world is connected to one another—and the same goes for our minds. Good luck in your match, and call me if anything goes wrong,” he said, and shook Keith’s hand, and then Shiro’s before leaving the restroom.

Keith went over to the sinks with a sigh and washed his hands before scrubbing water all over his face. His robe sleeves dipped down to his elbows, and fell back down as he gripped the edges of the countertop and said, “Sorry about… freaking out.”

“I know it wasn’t intentional,” Shiro said, voice tired. Keith glanced at him through the mirror reflection, and watched his coach rub a hand down his face and scratch at his stubble. “It’s _not_ your fault, Keith. I should have looked into who Knyaz was and I—I failed you and I’m sorry for that.”

Keith stayed quiet, wanting to let Shiro know it was all right, but somehow his voice failed him. He covered it up by scooping a handful of water into his mouth and swishing it around before spitting it out. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing this all happened before the match. I can do this now.”

After a moment of silence, Shiro looked at him and said, “Are you sure? Because not long ago you were tellin’ me not to let you fight him.”

“Well now I’m telling you to tell me to beat the living _shit_ out of him,” Keith hissed, pushing off the sink and combing a hand through his short hair. “I can do this. I haven’t wanted to punch someone this hard since my first training session with you.”

Shiro laughed, still a little unsure as he clapped Keith on the shoulder and suggested they let the others know that Keith was still alive.

Keith put up the hood on his robe as they left the bathroom. Shiro held the door for him, and when he came out, it didn’t seem to register to any of them that Keith was actually out in the open again. Pidge had to do a double-take before lunging for him, shouting, “You’re okay! Wait—right? You’re okay now, right?” She scrambled off him, holding him at arm’s length to get a good look at him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he laughed, scrubbing his hands through her hair. She giggle, nose scrunching up. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and noticed a delicious scent in the air that happened to completely mask the scent of sweaty people and gym shoes. “Is that food? It smells like…”

“OatMeal!” Pidge shouted, bracing a hand on her hip as she gestured to the bag Coran then lifted up off the ground. “I texted them while they were out getting food. Since we didn’t get to go there today… I figured why not! My treat.”

“Since when did _you_ have money?” he jested, flicking her on the side of the head before diving for the bag, rifling around for the infamous Elvis bowl with bacon and maple syrup and all. “What’s with all the pasta then?” he asked as he popped off the lid of his oatmeal and noted that Allura was on the ground dipping a breadstick into her mostaccioli. 

“I asked specifically for just pasta,” Shiro chastised, leaning against the wall, just inside the nook where the bathroom door was. Coran fished around in the pasta bag and handed him a styrofoam bowl. “What happened to not listening to Pidge?”

“That was never a thing!” Pidge countered.

“It seemed like a nice treat,” Coran said. “And it’s just a few blocks from The Quilted Lion so we just moseyed over there. I got peanut butter in mine!”

“Honey and cinnamon—yum…” Allura said, feet curling up before she slapped them back down and said, “How are you feeling now, Keith? Kolivan booked it out of here before we could ask.” 

“I’m fine. A lot better, actually,” he confessed, moving to take a seat beside her. Pidge claimed his other side before he paused mid-bite and looked around. “Where’s Hunk and Lance?” he asked, and regretfully noticed the pursed look Coran got on his face. “What is it?” he demanded, lowering his bowl.

Pidge was picking at her penne noodles before she murmured, “Lance came out crying so he and Hunk went outside to get some fresh air.”

Keith stared ahead for a second, and it took a second for him to remember that Lance was his boyfriend. He had to talk to Lance. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, putting the cap on his oatmeal and setting it on the floor. “Which way did they go?”

Coran nodded to the right—away from the front lobby. Keith bolted up and ducked past them, jogging down the hall and to the back corridor. Spectators were sitting here and there along the walls, waiting for matches to start in the pits, and Keith jumped over their legs and hurtled to the back exit. It had one of those stupid fucking signs on it that read EMERGENCY ALARM WILL SOUND but Keith just pushed his hands over it and yanked the door open. It wasn’t even locked, so it couldn’t have been that detrimental.

He skidded to a halt in the middle of an alleyway, and looked down the obvious route, and then spun in the direction of where the door was closing. He recognized Hunk’s towering frame standing with his arms crossed, underneath a fire escape. Lance was there, his hands over his face until the moment the door clicked shut behind Keith, and they realized he was standing there.

Keith hurried over to them, walking fast in a mid-jog as he said, “Lance—are you okay?”

Lance laughed a little, sniffing. “Really? I feel like _I_ should be the one asking _you_ that,” he said. He smiled a little, but the stiff, tightness of his cheeks said that it clearly wasn’t real. 

Hunk stood to the side of them, scratching the back of his head. He hissed a little between his teeth and nodded over to the door. “I’ll just… leave you two to it—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Lance snapped, grabbing Hunk by the arm. “Stay here, please.”

Keith glanced between the both of them as they had a silent argument, eyebrows going up and down, in and out until Hunk finally sighed and said, “Okay, I’ll stay here. But as soon as someone starts yelling—”

“Why would we yell?” Keith asked, frowning curiously at Hunk before turning to Lance. “Why would we yell?” he repeated.

He was close enough to see the darker streaks on Lance’s brown skin—tear tracks, and Lance rubbed over them with a groan. “ _I don’t know_ , okay? I got emotional— _you_ were emotional, _I_ was emotional. We don’t need to talk about it!” Lance exclaimed, and instantly Hunk slapped his hands over his ears, hollering, “La la la! Yelling! Yelling!”

“And that’s fine!” Keith said, “I don’t care if you got emotional—! I mean, I _care_ , but it’s not a problem, you know?”

“It isn’t about _that_ though,” Lance groaned, dragging his hands down the sides of his face. “It’s stupid! You were just—I don’t know. I-It was like you didn’t even know who I was and you were just _asking_ for _Lotor_!” He laughed a little, like he couldn’t believe he was even thinking it. “I-It just… It really hurt, okay?”

“Oh…” Keith murmured, staring at Lance for a second before glimpsing at Hunk, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of this conversation. “I—I barely even remember it. But that was all from _before_ , Lance. It was all before _you_.”

“I know! That’s why it’s stupid! But it was still _you_ , and it’s sad to think that you still feel like that towards someone like Lotor—”

“But I _don’t_ , Lance,” Keith insisted, and Lance dropped his eyes and held his hand over his eye again. “I won’t and _don’t_ ever want to feel like that again with Lotor. And… and that whole _loop_ situation completely confirmed it. I was completely out of line and I’m—I’m sorry if I made you feel less than what you are to me.”

As he spoke, Lance seemed to get ahold of himself better, and in the end reached for Keith and wrapped his arms around Keith’s neck. Keith held onto him, tucking his face against Lance’s soft neck as he said, “I’m sorry for putting you through this. Crying sucks.”

“Yeah, well, out of the both of us you _definitely_ cried more than me so…” Lance said, giggling when Keith reached up and flicked him in the back of the head for it. 

Suddenly something warm and heavy wrapped around them, and Keith shrieked a little when Hunk lifted them up off the ground. Lance laughed as Hunk said, “Yay! Glad that’s figured out!”

“Oh!” Lance said abruptly, and ordered Hunk and Keith to get off of him. He hurried over to the brick wall where Keith’s water bottle was sitting. “I almost forgot! Here’s your water bottle—Kolivan said you needed it,” he said, swinging it over to Keith. He caught it and stared at it before narrowing his eyes at Lance.

“Took you long enough,” he joked, and nearly choked on his first drink of water when Lance gasped and jabbed him in the stomach for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Poslushay menya_ = Listen to me  
>  _Ty krasivyy_ = You're beautiful ( _Krasivyy_ = beautiful)
> 
> I just used a bit of dictionary.com translator and google translator to confirm the translations, but if there's anyone who ACTUALLY speaks Russian who says differently, then I'll go with that. I am an ignorant fool, as we all know.
> 
> I JUST REALLY WANT EVERYONE TO REALIZE that there are no black-and-white antagonists !! Like, Lotor was a good guy, but Keith and him just REALLY didn't fit together well which led to both Lotor and Keith getting out of hand. But since this is all in Keith's POV, it's hard to get Keith to admit that he did some terrible things in the relationship as well. Like, we can infer his passive-aggressiveness in the relationship and inability to call it quits essentially caused him to lead Lotor on for MONTHS when Keith decided to live with Pidge. And Lotor's "anti-liberal" views just didn't coincide with Keith's. I'm sure Lotor could find a guy who has the same opinions as him, and that guy just isn't Keith.
> 
> ANYWHO! Y'all make me so happy--being able to read all your comments :D I hope you guys have a lovely day, and I'll see you again when I finished wriTING THE ULTIMATE FIGHT SCENE.


	20. Kogane Versus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I listened to this the entire time I wrote this first half of the chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4ydZIbnONE) I wish I was joking.
> 
> ALSO I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO POST A PIC OF [WAITER LANCE.](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/157716491030/waiter-lance-from-the-quilted-lion-d)

Keith and Shiro emerged from the dimly lit hallway and into the spotlights of the final match of the night—the only pit open, and the only pit full to the brim with spectators. The half-wall was removed, seeing as the pit was shared by two mats. They’d have the whole arena to strangle the life out of one another. Keith’s fists clenched at his sides at the thought of being able to _destroy_ Lotor physically and emotionally for all he put Keith through.

His eyes were on the fighting grounds, even as he heard their names being yelled and tossed about over his head. He hoped Pidge was watching—he hoped she could see him now.

 _I’m not the ignorant piece of shit you ruined_ , Keith hissed to himself as he and Shiro circled the edge of the mat, eyes on the opposite corner where Keith could see Lotor’s golden robe hook over his shoulders. He had the same long black hair Keith remembered, and he was currently braiding it into a tight bun. The spotlights hollowed out Lotor’s cheeks, and the sharp look to his angular jawline. 

And then, his eyes darted over to Keith. 

Keith schooled his expression. He told himself he was Shiro—he could be a statue for all Lotor cared. His apathetic, almost indifferent affect seemed to only infuriate Lotor. He’d recognize that tick in Lotor’s brow anywhere. 

“Don’t look at him,” Shiro hissed, so Keith turned away. Shiro gestured for him to hand over the robe, and passed Keith the water bottle in return. Keith could feel the effects of Hunk’s energy bar starting to kick in. His hands felt jittery—he couldn't keep still. “Remember what I said. No talking. Act like he’s any other opponent. Don’t listen to him if he talks to you.”

“I _know_ that,” Keith said, rolling his eyes. His gaze accidentally went to the crowd beyond the spotlights. They were all just shadows until Keith actually concentrated on them, and realized that some of the people against the front railing were practically screaming and swooning over the fact that he was looking at them. Slowly, he turned back to Shiro, water bottle sitting, forgotten, on his lip.

Shiro chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, “Don’t pay attention to them. You came this far—I have high hopes for you.”

“Hopes high enough to sacrifice a grand of your share?” Keith commented, to which Shiro silenced himself and glared at Keith. “I didn’t forget. You owe me—you and Allura ended up getting together because of it. You might never have gotten the nerve to ask her about her motorcycle. You might never have gotten a _ride_ on her motorcycle—”

“Okay, that’s enough. No need to bring it up,” Shiro muttered, shoving Keith by the head with a laugh. “Stretches. Now. No more talking.”

Shiro tended to get bossy at the start of matches, so Keith merely complied and did his primary stretches as the clock neared eight. He kept his eyes off Lotor’s side of the mat until the time came for the ref to call them up to the middle.

It’d been nearly three years since Keith saw Lotor so up close. He sedated his mind’s desire to call up the last occasion he happened to see Lotor, and the disaster that happened the day before Lotor boarded the plane to Russia. He could still feel his chest aching like some sort of echo, and seeing it reverberate against Lotor’s perfectly sculpted features was enough to restore Keith’s thirst for Lotor’s blood.

Lotor’s broad brow narrowed at Keith, puckering just above the bridge of his nose. Keith could feel his face wanting to do the same—coil up in disgust, a sour affect—but he was Shiro now. He had to stay calm, cool, and collected.

When the ref started listing the rules, Keith felt like neither of them were _really_ paying attention to it. They both had the rules memorized, like after so many rehearsal dinners for a wedding. Except, rather than staring at each other with stupidly sappy, loving affection, it turned to pure unadulterated fury. Keith clenched his fists so tightly against his blood red hand wraps that he feared they might tear.

“—Ready?” the ref said, looking between them both. 

Keith raised his fists up, and Lotor bumped his against them. “Ready as ever,” Lotor all but sneered. Keith’s lips pulled back over his mouthguard, and by the time he convinced himself not to retaliate, the ref called the whistle and the buzzer went off.

Keith was determined to be a completely different fighter, and to do that, he had to make the first move.

He doubled in and swiped his fists in face, one after the other, catching Lotor off guard. They dropped back, Lotor dodging another hit before grinding his foot down and hammering in and up for Keith’s stomach. He jumped out of the way and side-stepped, circling Lotor with an analytic eye.

Lotor’s hit was sharp and had the precision of a snake lashing out. A lot of boxing hits were like that—they had to move fast if they ever planned on landing a hit. He remembered how Lotor’s jabs worked—they were powerful, and Keith wasn’t looking to get hit by too many of them. After discovering who Knyaz was, Shiro went to look into his previous opponents in the tournament. One of them had a broken rib from two sharp straights to the torso.

There wasn’t much room for talking, especially around their mouthguards and in between heavy, quick panting between short attacks. They moved fast at the start, testing out the limits that weren’t there three years ago. Keith could feel himself vibrating inside at the intense excitement of when Lotor would go for a kick.

Lotor got low and went for an uppercut. Keith ducked to the side, but managed to get his ear boxed before he was able to slice through the air and knock Lotor upside the head with a tight, calculated fist. He went in again— which wasn’t the grandest idea, he had to admit, because Lotor could take another punch to the face, and deliver it back by a knee to the gut.

Lotor threw Keith down, but he rolled back up and bounced to his feet. Keith went after him with both fists raised, fast and absolutely furious. He slammed into Lotor, driving them both off the mat. Lotor tried to heave him over his shoulder, but Keith ground his feet into the rubber and wrestled against him, fingers clawing into the flesh of Lotor’s shoulders. 

In the tight quarters, he could only manage to knee Lotor once in the stomach before the knot of their arms made it impossible to do much except push against one another. The ref blew the whistle and separated them from the clinch, and Keith’s face was red. He never felt so angry in his life—he nearly screamed at the ref, but stopped the second he caught sight of Shiro throwing his arms up in the air, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing?!”

Keith sneered at the ref and went back to his corner, pumping his arms out before drawing his hands up through his hair. The hand wraps made it feel like the weight of his palms was twice that of its regular size, and now they were sweaty and mangled where his fingers clenched over them. He spun back around to face Lotor a second before the bout started up again. They had about thirty seconds left to the round. Keith would have to deliver more of an impact the next time he decided to follow through with an accurate hit.

The bout started again, and this time Keith sprinted across the mat and flew at Lotor full-force. With a scream, he flung himself into the air, fist back, and as if to make a punch, only to be deflected by Lotor dodging to the side. Lotor was mid-spin, and when Keith landed again, he slammed his elbow back against Lotor, swung around, and rammed his fist into the side of Lotor’s head.

The force of it sent them both staggering—Keith nearly landing on top of Lotor, and Lotor scrambling to stay on his feet. It wasn’t until the hit was delivered that Keith realized that there was heat swelling all inside of him, and it vanished from his fist the instant contact was made.

Lotor skidded on the balls of his feet, recovering fast and darting for Keith as he recuperated after the strange sensation in his fist dissipated. He didn’t have much time to block the hit that threw him to the ground, and sent him groaning against the mat. He heaved himself up and barely took a step towards Lotor before the buzzer went off. 

Keith could see the redness on Lotor’s temple turning whitish and swelling. He sneered at Keith before turning on his heels and heading for his corner, rubbing his wrist against the underside of his nose. Keith stared after him for a second longer before aggressively storming back to his corner and catching the water bottle Shiro tossed at him.

“He’s going easy on you,” Shiro commented. “He’ll be focused until he loses control—I think he’s holding off because of that.”

“You want me to make him lose control?” Keith slurred around his mouthguard, swallowing a gulp of water. “That doesn’t seem like a smart idea, no offense or anything.”

There was a particularly loud shout from the crowd, so both Shiro and Keith looked. Someone spilled their beer over the side of the railing, and there were some people getting rowdy in the front row—it looked like punches were being thrown, but Keith couldn’t really make them out beyond the shadows.

“They want a show,” Shiro continued, turning back to Keith. “Give them one.”

“You got it bossman,” Keith said with as much of a smirk as he could muster when one side of his face was starting to swell with heat. He slapped his water bottle back into Shiro’s hands and turned for the mat, shaking out his fists and raising them up to stretch. 

He twisted an arm back and hooked it against his other elbow as Lotor stepped up to the middle of the mat, studying Keith with an indignant scowl. The ref started back towards them as Keith switched arms and sneered at Lotor, “Like what you see?” 

He knew what Shiro said about not talking—there were other ways to infuriate Lotor, but the effect was too much for Keith to pass up. 

“Better before you started fucking that scrawny _mudak_ ,” he seethed, lips pulling back over his golden mouthguard. Keith’s eye twitched at the word—he heard it plenty of times to have a good idea what Lotor meant by it. 

The ref looked between them, eyes wide and looking more or less disturbed by the series of events that just conspired. Perhaps the ref was starting to realize the extent of this fight, and how it went completely beyond the pit. 

Keith winked at Lotor, who merely growled under his breath and held his fists out aggressively to Keith’s. When the ref called the whistle for the second round, Keith said, “He’s better at fucking than you anyway.” It was muffled by the mouthguard, but the gist of it got around, and sent Lotor screaming in his direction.

Keith ducked to the side and spun in time to dive back and avoid another hit to the cheek. Lotor hammered into Keith’s side, raging, “ _Shut up! Shut—UP!_ ” between punches. Keith ducked his elbows down and blocked the majority of them, and barely managed to avoid a hit to the face before Lotor dove in— _perfect_.

Keith hooked his hand down and grabbed Lotor before he saw it coming. He flung Lotor over him—Lotor’s feet left the ground and Keith felt more power than he had in a _while_. With a roar, he chucked Lotor to the ground with enough force to cause his opponent’s head to bounce off the mat, and roll off onto the concrete. Keith was _so close_ to running up and kicking him in the stomach before he remembered that was against the rules.

Lotor got up in no time, panting hard, and snarling at Keith, “How many _fuck toys_ have you _had since I left_!” he demanded, storming towards Keith with his hands barely raised until Keith came in for a punch to the gut. Lotor blocked it, snarling, “ _How many?!_ ”

“He’s my _boyfriend!_ ” Keith screamed. “Don’t fucking—”

Keith broke off mid-sentence to deliver a particularly hard hit to Lotor’s already bruised ulnas, and again to the side of his shoulder. They were both screaming by the time Lotor finally clocked Keith in the side of the head and sent him skidding across the ground, falling to the side no more than a foot from the wall.

Keith reached out to the concrete wall, glowering at Lotor as he stormed towards Keith. He blocked Keith in and slammed his fist toward Keith’s head—just far enough to avoid hitting the wall when Keith dodged it. Lotor’s knee shot up and slammed into the underside of Keith’s ribs. “ _Fuck!_ ” Keith groaned, pushing against Lotor.

His leg slotted between Lotor’s, and he was _so_ tempted to just knee him in the family jewels—it was against the rules and would most likely destroy his chances of winning the tournament when it came to the point system. So he squeezed out of the clinch and swung his leg back, slamming Lotor into the wall, and coming in the throw a long punch to the side of his face.

Lotor slid partially down the wall before pushing off and snarling at Keith, “As if _you could forget about me!_ ”

Keith nailed his fist up and slammed it into Lotor’s nose, and regretted it instantly. Lotor barely stumbled under it, and punched Keith so hard in the head that he slammed back into the concrete wall and blacked out momentarily on impact.

He felt something hot seeming to leak out the back of his head—it felt like what Professor Kolivan did, with the sensation of all the warmth in his body dripping out onto the floor. For a split second, in the midst of falling, Keith panicked. He _couldn’t_ black out. He couldn’t KO—the ten thousand _fucking dollars_. He couldn’t leave without it.

His bind blanked for the half-second it took for him to hit the ground. Keith groaned an instant later, rebounding fast enough to avoid the three second count, and stumble away from Lotor—dizzy as all hell and reaching for the back of his head. His blood red hand wraps showed the slick shine of blood there. 

Then—

—He sensed Lotor approaching from behind.

Keith didn’t even need to look. He dropped to the side, no matter how much it sent his head swimming, and avoided shove to his shoulders. He twisted on Lotor in the same instant it took to dodge another hit, and come back with his mind blank and wondering why the hell Lotor looked so furious with him. _Lotor?_

Thinking back on it, Keith _really_ should have been more concerned about his fluctuating memories.

Before he could even think, _What the hell is going on?_ he sensed the tension in Lotor’s pectoral muscles, his shoulder twisting only slightly—the muscles then tensing down the length of Lotor’s braced arm. There was something particular about it Keith hadn’t noticed before, and in the slow-motion method of watching Lotor prepare for a straight, Keith saw the magic behind it. He felt it before, but it was never so prominent to show through as a tactile substance that _Keith was able to see_.

Keith spun to the side hard and fast, avoiding the hit and delivering one of his own within the matter of an entire long, excruciating second. His fist connected with the side of Lotor’s ribcage, and seemed to dent in before the energy of it really seemed to hit either of them. 

He never saw someone fly as far as Lotor did from one of Keith’s punches.

Lotor collapsed onto the pit mat and rolled onto his stomach with a soft cry of pain, pushing himself up with one hand—the other instantly went to his side, clutching at his most likely bruised flank. Keith waited, chest heaving, listening to the people in the stands go insane, and see the coaches, judges, and the ref scatter away from the epicenter of Keith’s future damage.

Once Lotor was back on his feet several seconds later, the buzzer went off and sent Keith storming to his corner. He furiously ignored everything Shiro said—though somewhere, some of it must have sunk in to his stone-cold brain. He glared across the mat at Lotor, and the feeling seemed to be likewise.

By the time the third round started, Keith stormed over to Lotor, making it close enough to fake a punch, and go in for a kick to Lotor’s side. He slammed in again with his shin and dropped it in favor of countering Lotor’s punch with his hand darting up, gripping Lotor’s wrist, and pounding his non-dominant fist against Lotor’s face.

Lotor laid a hit to Keith’s gut, knocking the air out of him and taking him off balance. An instant later, something slammed into the side of his head, bringing back all the pain from the wound on the back of his head. He hit the ground, skull rattling, and went to get back up had his equilibrium not completely screwed him over.

He barely got to his knees before his vision skewed and went sideways. He staggered and fell, shaking his head and trying to get up again. _Concussion_ , he seethed internally, heaving out of his nostrils and watching drips of blood collect on the mat below him.

Keith stood up, jaw slack, and eyes unfocused. He stared at Lotor as he forced himself to rewind less than a minute back when he couldn’t feel this pain. When he didn’t know he had a concussion. 

He could see himself grabbing Lotor by the wrist again, punching him with his non-dominant hand. He couldn’t feel a damn thing.

Keith ignored the uneven sensation of his eyes, and how unbalanced his body was. Lotor went in to hit Keith again—his fist made contact with Keith’s nose, but Keith barely even heard the crack, let alone reacted to it. He slammed against Lotor’s forearms again and again, with increasing strength before finally Lotor pulled his arms back to hit Keith again. 

In the time it took for Keith to deliver an overpowered uppercut, Lotor hit him in the side of the head and effectively took him down. Keith was on the ground before he could fully register what happened. He moaned against the mat, and blood saliva lifted with him. He tried to rewind back again, but his brain was out of control. He could barely see straight, getting up off the ground and forcing himself to his knees.

He looked over at Lotor, who was on the ground and not moving. Keith pushed onto one foot, swaying, and feeling a track of dried blood crust on his upper lip. Only then did he see Lotor shift, and it came in the sound of a muffled grunt beyond the roar of the crowd.

Keith staggered to his feet, walking with a languor to his steps that made it evident he could barely stand as it was. He’d collapse after he won the ten thousand dollars. He would only stand for as long as it took for Lotor to get up and fight again. He’d forget all about Lotor again. He wouldn’t have to see Lotor again.

Lotor pushed to his knees, and was on his feet before the final count. Keith rolled his head back and raised his fists, preparing to go again, but they were interrupted by the buzzer.

“ _Shit_ ,” Keith moaned, and turned to stagger back to Shiro. He could see his coach already stepping forward to help Keith off the mat, but before he could get too far, he heard something drop onto the mat behind him, and a gasp went around the edges of the pit.

Keith hesitated, and looked back, steps stuttering and nearly falling back into Shiro when his brain seemed to spin around the interior of his skull. His eyes managed to focus on Lotor, collapsed on the mat, being pulled up by his coach Haggar. Keith was so shocked he couldn’t seem to find the voice to ask.

“Damn, he’s unconscious,” Shiro commented under his breath, forcing the water bottle into Keith’s hands. “How you doin’? _Shit_ , there’s blood all over your neck—”

“Concussion,” Keith managed to say, squinting his eyes shut with a sigh. 

Shiro cursed again, and ordered a chair be pulled up for Keith. He forced Keith down into it and used a damp towel to mop up the crusted blood on the back of his head, over his eyes, and his nose and mouth. Keith sat there and took it, watching lazily as the ref and Haggar knelt beside Lotor on the mat.

The ref came over to them after a while and said, “If he’s unfit by the end of the break, Haggar’s calling a forfeit.”

Shiro thanked the ref, and returned back to tending to Keith’s wounds as Keith vigorously gulped water despite how nauseous he felt. He leant over his knees, and let Shiro hold the towel firmly to the back of his head. “Just hang in there,” Shiro murmured, and Keith muttered some incoherent response. 

He just have to stay awake long enough to out-stand Lotor.

  


  


The minute passed, and Keith watched Lotor try to stand and fail. Keith was certain he wasn’t much better, but he pushed himself up off the chair regardless, and stared down his ex. They stood across from each other, and Keith felt his brain turn to putty the second Lotor staggered and nearly fainted right back onto the mat. Haggar caught him, and nodded to the ref. 

So Keith technically won because of a forfeit, but it happened to be climactic enough to send the crowd into the wildest frenzy Keith ever experienced. He’d never been the victor in front of such a massive crowd, but getting his fist held up into the air by the ref was exhilarating, if not unnerving.

He wished he could have gone another three goddamn rounds just to pummel Lotor into the ground. As it happened, revenge didn’t necessarily need to be some elaborate beatdown. 

When the ref let go of him, Shiro came running over and picked Keith right up off the ground in a victorious hug. “Ha ha! We did it! You did it!” he shouted, swinging Keith around. Keith would have laughed had he not felt like complete shit.

“O-Okay, okay—put me down,” Keith insisted, patting Shiro on the head before dropping onto his feet and falling into Shiro for a supportive hug. He couldn’t quite stand on his own anyway.

Shiro and Keith stuck around, and Shay came to meet them in the pit along with a nurse who had a background in healing concussions and the sort. Keith seriously didn’t want to spend a fortune on something like that, and insisted he could heal fine on his own. It would only take… a few painful weeks.

The stands didn’t exactly clear out, considering the final winner would be announced in the very same room, so Keith stuck around with Shay healing his bruised ribs. He winced a little as he sat up from the ground, rubbing at them. “How do they feel now?” she asked.

“Better. A lot better. They’re just sore now,” he reassured her with a small smile before turning and realizing that someone was walking towards them.

Keith looked up and found Lotor staring down at him. After a moment, Lotor glanced at Shay, who squeaked a little and said she’d be off. “Thanks for helping out,” Keith said to her, and she waved him off with a nervous laugh, rambling, “No problem! Not a problem at-all. See you around! Bye!”

After she was gone, and Keith saw that Shiro was at the railing talking to Allura and Coran (who were leaning over the edge of it), Lotor finally knelt down and said, “Shay is as unnerved by me as always.”

“She never liked you,” Keith muttered, rolling his eyes with a wince. 

“Why don’t you get your concussion healed?” Lotor criticized, scowling at Keith.

“I don’t want to waste the money on a healer. My head heals just fine, thanks,” he murmured, curling his legs up and looking off across the pit. Lotor’s eyes were alarming to see so close after spending so much time away from him. Keith reached up and scratched at his hairline before sighing and saying, “What are you _doing_ here?”

After a moment of silence, Lotor said, “At first I meant to see you. I felt that… we left off on not-so-good terms.” Keith didn’t answer, and Lotor’s eyes lowered to his lap. “And I suppose… I was looking to move back to the United States. I was going to use the winnings to start out.”

At this, Keith looked up at him, his expression softened. He guessed he hadn’t exactly thought about what anyone else would do with their share of the winnings, and it worried Keith now that Lotor said something about it. What would the winner take from people like Sendak, or Ulaz, or even Zarkon? What plans did they have?

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and Lotor waved him off.

“It’s fine. I will manage,” he assured Keith, leaning his forearms over his elbows. After a moment, he rubbed a hand over the bruises on his eyes and said, “I suppose I missed talking to you as well. It… felt like shit when I realized you moved on. I just don’t understand _how_ you—” 

Lotor broke off, infuriated by something he didn’t want to mention. Keith remembered it from the times they were together. Lotor wanted Keith to bring it up so he didn’t have to. 

Keith glanced over at the entrance to the pit, surprised that he managed the timing so perfectly. He could see Lance, Hunk, and Pidge being escorted by the security to the door. They saw Keith and Lotor sitting beside one another, and Keith looked down at his lap for a moment before glancing at his ex. 

“I’m not interested in you anymore,” Keith said, taking in a deep, shaky breath as he added, “And… I really had a tough time after you left. And I don’t have plans on reenacting that anytime soon.”

“Fair enough,” Lotor said, pushing himself up to his feet and reaching for Keith’s hand. After a moment of hesitation, Keith accepted it. He held on for a second longer than necessary, and said, “It _was_ good seeing you again.”

Keith wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure if he could agree or disagree with that statement, so he stayed silent and let Lotor walk off back to Haggar. He glanced back once at Keith, and offered a small wave before turning away completely and leaving the pit. Lance, Hunk, and Pidge started across the mat towards Keith, ignoring Lotor as they crossed paths. 

Lance picked up his pace and hurried over to Keith. He slammed into Keith full-force, the hug eliciting a delighted laugh from Keith. “You did it! How do you feel?!” 

“Like shit,” he laughed, clinging to Lance and tucking his head into Lance’s neck. He inhaled sharply, and tasted the spearmint on his tongue, and reveled in it. It was a breath of fresh air being in Lance’s arms. “But I’m better now.”

“Ha, that’s good,” he replied, nuzzling into the side of Keith’s head like a goddamn cat before preparing to pull back. Keith held on tighter, forcing Lance closer. 

Keith opened his eyes with a sigh and found Pidge and Hunk approaching. He just wanted to hug Lance forever. He could vividly remember every time Lance made him smile and laugh and just a few weeks—a month, even—was enough to compile such significance. Just a month felt like enough to make him dependent again, while all at once knowing exactly when and where to be his own person. He wouldn’t repeat the past. Not with Lance.

And he loved Lance for reminding him of it.

  


  


Keith stared at the replica of his ten thousand dollar check every day. He spent approximately an hour each day dedicated to it—not on purpose. Mostly on accident. He would just find himself standing there, staring at it. It was one of those massive imitations of the actual check—just so everyone could see its grandeur, and the importance behind it. Keith could barely wrap his mind around it.

The morning light was starting to slip in through the curtains. They spent all last night watching Pidge play games and such, which required that the blinds be closed for proper viewing pleasure. The street lights tended to obstruct the massive televisions screen that Pidge fawned over constantly. There were still empty soda cans strewn across the place. Keith still didn’t drink much soda, though—it was mostly Pidge and Lance.

The thought of Lance reminded Keith that he wanted to go back to bed regardless of what his brain was telling him. He was antsy all the time. He knew the monumental model of his check wasn’t real, but it felt like it. He felt like he needed to protect the fortune he just won after all that goddamn work he put behind it. Standing for too long gave him headaches, and staring at it didn’t exactly help his stability. 

_It will be there when I get up again_ , Keith promised himself, and convinced himself as best he could so he could leave the living room the way it was. A mess from video game night, and perfect all the same. He’d miss this apartment, but he certainly wouldn’t miss those old memories seemly painted over by Pidge and Keith. He couldn’t sugar coat anything he or Lotor did, but that didn’t mean he had to linger on it anymore.

It’d be good for them. To move out of the Lower East Side.

Keith plodded down the hall to his room, and paused at the door. The bathroom door was open down the hall, and there wasn’t a light on or anything, but he could see the reflection of the hallway through he mirror. It used to freak him out before, but now there wasn’t much to be afraid of. Pidge always hated the door being open. For a night owl, she was terribly afraid of the dark, and having a mirror just down the hall from her room freaked her out immensely.

He went over and shut it, and turned back to his room where he led the door propped open just a smidge. Bothering Lance in the morning with door-creaks wasn’t part of his plan, so he took his time entering again and gradually closing it with the door knob twisted. It didn’t even click when he released it.

There wasn’t much light inside the room, except for the green charger light on Lance’s laptop sitting in the corner of Keith’s bedroom. He used that to maneuver back to the bed, where he could see Lance’s soft brown face turned towards him, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. One of his legs was out over the sheets, hands tucked under one of the pillows, and the rest faded away by the shadows of Lance’s black shirt and boxers.

Keith slid into the bed, and lowered himself back down onto the pillow. He stared at Lance for a while as sleep evaded him. It was probably six in the morning, and Shiro refused to let Keith into the gym until his concussion was done. Unfortunately, Shiro had Shay monitoring it, so Keith had no way of lying. It was honestly ridiculous.

With his brain overall injured, Professor Kolivan refused to see him. “Head injuries make meditation quite difficult—at least through the tactics I use. Would you _like_ me to bash you upside the head again?”

“No, that’s fine. I’d prefer staying… un-bashed,” Keith confessed with a wince.

But meditation became easier for Keith, it seemed, the longer he spent not doing… _anything_ really. So it was easy to look at Lance, and pull forward memories from the past week, the week before that, and the week even before _that_. He had a habit of looking back on stupid jokes Lance made that Keith still laughed over. He loved rewatching Allura and Coran dance through the café singing, “ _—This could be love, be-cause! I’ve had the ti-ime of my li-ife!_ ”

Keith smile like he was there all over again, studying the enraptured look on Shiro’s face seeing Allura and Coran lose control, let loose, and sing their hearts out. Lance’s beautifully baffled expression when he accused Keith of starting the entire endeavor. He loved every damn second of it, and couldn’t believe he was still a part of it. It seemed so… out of place among his previous memories. The Quilted Lion was something he never experienced before. 

It was like Allura said. The Quilted Lion was one huge family, and with Pidge spending all of her study time there now, and Shiro now officially taking the owner of the business on dates, Keith included them too. They were all his family, and he would never get sick of walking into that place with Lance at his side.

Keith blinked back into the present when he heard Lance yawn. The daylight in the café faded over Lance’s face, and a moment later Lance squeezed his eyes shut and opened them enough to peer over at Keith and say, “What are you smiling at? You dipping again?”

Dipping seemed to be the term for what Keith did on a daily basis now. It helped that Professor Kolivan suggested it, to improve Keith’s grasp on the the magical mindset. And with all the time he had on his hands, it wasn’t such a bad idea. And he just loved looking back on the beautiful new content. 

“I can’t help it,” Keith confessed, curling closer so he could press his head to Lance’s chest, and listen for that heartbeat again. It was always hard to find at first. It took concentration to hear and feel another person’s heartbeat through the cage of their chest. It was so well protected, and whenever Lance let him listen to it, it was like he was giving Keith a window into this segment of his being that Lance only ever seemed privy to. 

Lance’s breath masked it most times, and it would just be selfish of Keith to ask Lance to stop breathing for a second just so he could hear the gentle thrum of Lance’s heart. So, he read between the gentle exhales and inhales, and how they complimented the beat against his ear. He weaseled an arm under Lance so Keith could hug him properly.

Lance placed his hand over Keith’s hair and combed through the longer strands that curled over his ear. He pinched Keith’s earlobe gingerly, and smoothed his thumb against the curve of the shell. “You’re so cute,” Lance whispered.

Keith pressed his lips to Lance’s chest before lifting his chin up and saying, “You’re so perfect.”

“I’m blushin’ over here.”

Keith giggled, tucking his heated cheeks to the fabric over Lance’s shirt. “I love you,” he said. “And I want to go to The Quilted Lion when we get up for the day.”

“I see where your priorities lie,” Lance chuckled, curling into Keith and purposefully forcing him back onto the bed so Lance could roll on top of him. He shimmied down so they were at eye level, and their feet were dangling off the end of their bed. Lance’s smile was masked in shadows, but Keith had enough memories of it to manufacture one of his own. The smile he remembered of Lance was when Keith admitted that he _wasn’t_ looking for a friends-with-benefits situation. “You’re dipping again. You know it shows, right?”

“What do you mean?” Keith asked, still smiling. He could feel Lance’s arms around him, when all he had were Lance’s forearms pressed to the mattress on either side of Keith’s head.

“It’s like… I don’t know. It’s like a reflection in your eyes. And if you’re dipping into memories that have more light in it than the place you’re currently in, then it’s kind of obvious,” Lance explained. 

Keith blushed a little, thankful that Lance couldn’t see it in the dark. He reached up and crossed his arms around Lance’s neck, grinning devilishly.

“What were you looking at?” Lance asked, bumping the tip of his nose against Keith’s. In the morning, Lance’s bad breath was masked with spearmint. Keith would be forever jealous of it.

“I can’t see your smile right now, so I was just bringing up a memory of it,” he confessed.

Lance made a whining noise in the back of his throat, pressing in closer as if that would get him to see what exactly Keith was revisiting. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. I love you _so damn much_.”

Keith tipped his chin up to connect their lips together in a soft, languid morning kiss that woke them both up long enough to sit up in bed and decide what their game plan was while they pulled on clothes for the day, unplugged their phones, and braced themselves for the light outside the bedroom door. Before they could leave, Keith stepped up behind Lance and tucked his chin against Lance’s boney shoulder.

Lance turned to the side and pressed his lips to Keith’s temple. He looked up and turned to face Lance, who laughed a little and said, “Every time I look at you, you’re bringing up memories again! Can’t you stop with that once in a while?”

Keith laughed, squeezing Lance one last time before heading for the door. With a flippant hand, he said, “Whatever. I just want to look at you—I can’t really do that when you’re behind me or I can’t see your face.”

Lance squeaked a little, crying out, “That’s so cute! I want to see you all the time to!”

“Try it once in a while, it’s fun,” Keith said, turning back to wink playfully at Lance on their way to the living room. “Make me your fancy coffee stuff when we get to café?” he asked, backing into the kitchen as Lance reached for him, tugging at his hips.

Lance gave him a presumptuous, brazen smirk, and all but purred, “Hell yeah. Tell me what you’d like, _boxing champion_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S OVER. MY BEAUTIFUL BOXING CHILD AND MY BARISTA/WAITER BABY! This is sort of the epilogue all wrapped up, but there's a lot I left out because I couldn't seem to write it properly:
> 
>  **Additional Notes For The Epilogue** :  
> I think that after another two years, Lance's internship turns into a full time job in Denver. Keith, who is now in the professional boxing league, decides to move with Lance considering the USA Boxing headquarters are actually in Colorado Springs which is about an hour from where he and Lance will be living. Pidge lands an internship in San Francisco, and with the wild living situations around there, Hunk accompanies her by asking for a transfer in his field at the same company he's been working at. Shiro and Allura will date for nearly 6 years, during which time Shiro decides to wrap up his history as a coach and manager, and his side jobs in favor of opening a bar across the street from The Quilted Lion. His busiest hours end up being JUST after The Quilted Lion closes, so there isn't any business rivalry there. His cliental ends up intermingling with Allura's, and the regulars have a habit of eating at The Quilted Lion, and getting after drinks at Shiro's bar. Keith and Lance will date for 4 years--there was a brief 1 month period where Lance lived at a coworker's house after a huge fight that conspired when Keith's mom popped in randomly and caused drama. Everything worked out, and I'd like to say they got married and adopted kids, but Keith really isn't about the parenting life, and Lance's full-time job makes it difficult for that to be a reality at the moment. Allura and Shiro eventually marry and don't have kids because their businesses are their children. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **NEWS FOR THE FUTURE** :  
> I really want to write the synthete Keith book! I have a plot, ending, and everything! But it will be an emotional rollercoaster that I have to save for when I'm not swamped by school stuff. I'll probably start writing it over spring break (March 12th-ish). The entire thing is a surprise. And contrary to popular belief, I do sometimes cry when I write sad things. And with glasses it just fogs up my vision and then I can't even write. Like, wtf is this.
> 
> For now I'm going to be writing light stuff on Wattpad's new app, Tap. My original fic on there is called [Listen To No One](https://taptap.app.link/y5gZNI6S2A). There's a bit of humor, mystery, and magic involved.
> 
> But you can always find me on [**Tumblr**](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/) and [**Wattpad**](https://www.wattpad.com/user/-SarahCorner-)! I love talking to you guys even if it's just pointless stuff.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Charmed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309598) by [girlskylark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlskylark/pseuds/girlskylark)




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